Smooth

mother holding little baby on travel by planeThe child’s eyes filled with tears

The journey was too long,

Grandparents were a distant memory.

Home was  a dream of Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny.

Boarding was a bad word, written for business class who needed  to connect.

 

Her hands were red; sanitized, rubbed raw with worry.

 

Return, they said, it will work out.

He is only overworked.

The ring on her hand caught the light

Blinding.

The gold  clung to her finger.

Return flight;

Turbulence is a result of take off;

Then there is stability.

Calm.

Her body relaxes

And belts removed.

A tiny head asleep on her chest

Trusting.

Posted on March 14, 2019, in poem, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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