Someone forgot to tell the world to stop turning.  Spring arrived and you followed, on time.  Our precious Covid rainbow.  A dot of light in the darkest of days.  My little pot of gold.

Dawn breaks.  Your cries lift up like blue balloons to join the chorus.  Each one a pure, searing note.  Anxious, drugged from love and lack of sleep, I scoop you up.

“Shush, shush.”

You nestle there in my arms.  First born. I rock you gently and sing a lullaby.  The owl watches wisely on the nursery windowsill.   It is made of the softest lambswool and plump with dried lavender.  The scent is clean.  It soothes our jangling nerves.  We will learn together, you and I.

Three months old now and summer is here.  Lockdown restrictions are easing.  Freedom beckons.  Dreams are taking shape again.  We have clapped for carers once a week and face-timed nanna every day.  You are my fledgling.

Soon I’ll carry you up a lavender-bordered path to a cottage door.  Virtual hugs will be replaced by real ones and you will meet properly for the first time.  She will breathe your sweet milkiness and stroke your thistledown hair.  She will kiss away your salty tears.

I trace a finger lightly on your rosebud mouth and wonder what life has in store for you.  The future is ours.  We have made it together, you and I.