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by Tristram Tuna, November

They said he was heavy but to me he seems light.
        I'm not used to babies. I've got butterflies.
What should I do? How should I hold him?           
     What if he cries?

He looks blindly around with his half conscious eyes
       Seeking something to quiet his desperate yearning.
Feeling his pain, I hug to give comfort.
     I'm learning.

He instantly clings with his arms reaching round me,
       Nuzzling the cliff-face of my broad, muscled chest.
As his body and mine exchange warmth,
     He's at rest.

He buries his face to escape from the light
       Finding darkness enough, sleep is winning.
His weary eyes close. He stops moving,
     Still clinging.

I clutch him and gaze at his half-hidden face
      Innocently trusting in someone so new.
There's no-one but us in our world,
     Just we two.

My arm starts to tire, have I held him so long?
        But I mustn't disturb him by changing my hold.
I must cherish this moment so precious,
     Pure gold.

Others intrude. Someone else wants to hold him.
        I'll have to let go, it's the end of our time.
Will I hold him again? Or another?
     Perhaps mine.

We shall be delighted if you visit our sister site at Wickford and District Talking Newspaper for the the Blind and see what those dedicated charity workers are doing.

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