She writes
In between pink coughing medicine doses
the mother sits to write
sleep deprived, she steals moments from
her child’s illness
not focused her body signals for sleep
but the last spoon of Calpol is kicking inn
and she might not get another chance tonight
There’s always a mess to be tidied
around the house, or in her head
there’s always going to be a pile of clothes to be ironed
an overgrown back garden
a thousand courtesies she hasn’t met
But for now, the rain is falling angrily on the cheap
fibreglass conservatory roof
she calls it inspiring
and she writes.
