“Mummy, I am poorly,”
A cry cuts through the air.
Pulling my head from the pillow
Under my breath, I swear.

I know she cannot help it,
To be woken by ill health.
But I’m tired from working late last night
And I want to cry myself.

We settle down upon the couch
She wants me just to hold her.
The arm is digging in my back
And my head‘s propped on my shoulder.

In minutes she is back to sleep,
Her drowsy head is hung.
(So heavy laid upon my chest,
It might collapse my lung.)

But though I’m still exhausted,
And my mood’s a little sour,
I lay my cheek against her head
And wonder at my power.

It won’t always be this easy
For such comfort to impart.
Disappointments? Failures?
Perhaps a broken heart?

Right now I have the magic
To make everything alright.
And for that, I should be thankful –
Even in the dead of night.

So, as she snores softly
And elbows me in the chest,
I enjoy my mummy power.
For now, I am the best.

Emma Robinson 2016