A tiny hand reaching just short toward peach collared comfort
Gentle demand and supply in the bare skinned quiet
A fair, tender touch
A squeeze and tug
A baby’s trust
Washing in stares and sunglow
The pat pat pat of that hand on breast
Giggles and gums
A full-bellied bond for both mother and child
Curtaining dark hair tangled around their faces
Coated in spilled orange juice and syrup
Small muffled gulps to top off a stomach filled with pancakes
A sliver of voice with each swallow
Soft focus wrapping them in warmth of the day start
And the tiny hand slips down
Lashes lay onto cheeks
And we are asleep
They call me Spitfire. 