A poem for the Feast of the Annunciation, from Sheila Billingsley, mother in the days before scans and ultrasound, and now grandmother and great-grandmother – and poet.
And the Word …
Sitting before the scan,
An embryo great-grandchild.
Fitting so safely, so securely.
What are you feeling ?
What are you hearing ?
Did you hear your mother singing ?
Her laughter ?
Did you feel in your enveloping nest,
Her touch as she moved ?
The warmth of your sun ?
The deepening silence of your night ?
Oh! Minute yet transparent child,
With those predestined hands and feet ?
And later, did you feel joy
In your growing infantile strength,
Those fingers that would touch and heal ?
Your limbs so weak, so strong, the skin so soft.
Until the womb could no longer hold you.
Did you hear your angel voices that night ?
Feel your winter’s chill ?
The hands that held you, wrapped you, touched you …
Oh, but your eyes
Opening tentatively in the dim light,
Your eyes, did they seek
The eyes that sought for yours ?