Sunday, 9 March 2014


Sleeping girl,
sweetest weight in all the world,
heavy limb and heavy milk and minutes linger on.

And we were late
we walked home gone after eight,
we pulled soft and close fit cotton over weary heads.

Fell asleep in nook of arm as ted fell out of bed.

Whilst I recall,
cotton cloth forgotten song,
time that wouldn't ever end in growing up and on.

Satin quilted double throw and narrow corridor.

And who could know,
speed at which those moments go,
years that gain and fleet and fade and limbs to curve and grow.

Somewhere 7 blonde bob hair,
cord and patent carpet stair,
high as sky and knee to climb and I recall that face.

Late at night and walking home,
country lane and quiet road,
March and dark and race you back and air as cold as snow.

Late to bed head full of then, head full of hours gone.


  1. Beautiful. Childhood can be so wonderful. X

    1. Thank you, inside I still sometimes feel like a child myself x

  2. You write with such elegance. Love the line 'sweetest weight in all the world' - I agree completely.

    1. It really is, she so rarely falls asleep in my arms now. Growing all too fast x

  3. I agree with Sarah - that line is exquisite. Beautiful words Helen xx

    1. Thank you - I so love your piece from this week too x

  4. This makes me feel so nostalgic . you've captured the essence of childhood beautifully.

  5. I love your writing. So much. This is beautiful Helen. Goosebumps and nostalgia rolled into one. Thank you for linking to Prose for Thought x

    1. Thank you Victoria, always a pleasure to link up and ready so many lovely pieces of writing x

  6. Head full of hours gone - Oh very yes! Bittersweet from either end - every beautiful moment tinged with a sense of loss for the child they/we were... Lovely pic, too - did you 'age' (washout) it in photoshop or was it a happy accident?

  7. Hi,
    I love this. Subtle and lilting, lovely use of language and rhythm.
    Does that nostalgia hit everyone when their kids reach a certain age? I've been having thoughts like this for a while. I think fondly of bibs and babygro's as I put man sized rugby kit in the washing machine.

  8. I hope that my children have these sorts of memories of their childhoods. What a beautiful poem.


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