I wrote a poem about 20 years ago about a sweet rainy Saturday morning. I had a cold. I got up in the night. My 3 year old daughter had a nightmare and went to “mummy/daddy bed”, to find just Daddy, but crawled in without protest. My 5 year old son loved having time to himself and got up early to read his comic books in peace. The Dad woke up at 8 or so to the sight of his small daughter listening to the rain.
It was a very sweet morning.
I wrote a musical piece to commemorate it, as my daughter turns 23.
Here it is:
And here is the poem:
The little girls pads on sleepy feet
to the warmth of her parents’ bed.
Mother has since gone to prop herself
on the living room couch
to nurse a blocked nose.
The boy wakes up early,
in his trademark twisted mass of blankets and body parts
on the floor beside his bed.
He tiptoes past with comic books
past his propped up mother
to read in peace on the guest bed.
He thinks he is alone.
Sometime after dawn the father stirs
and wakes up
to his daughter’s wide eyes
and her fascination with the rain.