New Days | Jenny Middleton

The days have become still,
Intricate and tissue
Wrapped, swaddled, laying
Peacefully in my arms.
I cradle each one.
Each impenetrable, confusing
Entity, and wonder if the shadows
and remnants of before hide beneath.

Sometimes I dare to loosen
Their tightness, their neatness
To check they are not bleating messages
From un-severed umbilical telephone
Like cords, fat attached and still ringing
with the words of their predecessors.

But they are individual.
Silent, pink and mute.
Attentive, dependant and waiting
For me to feed, to fill them
And bloat them
With my presence.

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