The Night Shift

Mumma’s tired, her day is full.

Mental load, washing load, noisy children car load.

Babes asleep, her bed awaits, cosy blanket made of wool.

Shhh! Silence pinging phone: night mode.

Roll over one, roll over twice.

Willing sleep to blanket weary bones.

Dancing on the ceiling; audible resident mice.

Husband snoring in strident tones.

Moonbeams floodlight inky sky.

Pitter, patter little feet.

Return to bed child, Tis stil nigh’

Sulky eyes, sullen steps; feeling beat.

Sleep washes over but not for long.

Mumma’s woken, baby warbling for midnight feed.

Milky breath, Mumma snuggles, gentle song.

Ahhhh. Babe asleep. Quiet victory, indeed.

Mumma’s head on pillow, eyelids fall.

Goodnight house. (And goodnight mouse).

Husband whistling through his nose.

Sleep well creatures. (Big, and small).

“Mumma!” Small boy, calling out.

Bad dreams soothed by Mumma’s coos.

Back to bed. A good night’s sleep? Mumma doubts.

Ink black fades. Yellow amber bursts through mottled cloud.

Morning has broken, a new day dawns.

Another night shift endured. Mumma feels defeated, but proud.

Husband wakes. “Sleep well?” None-the-wiser, he yawns.

In the blink of an eye these years will pass.

Her world is small. But to them, she is their all.

As did the women before her, she carries on, with class.

For before she knows it, the youngest babe will crawl.

So when amber yellow fills the sky,

Mumma’s heart does sing.

Her babes awake “Mumma!” they happy cry.

What memories will today bring?

When night shift is done,

And daylight is here,

Brings children’s laughter, sounds of fun.

Sounds and colours to hold near, sounds and colours to hold dear.