To Child, Or Not To Child?

Your hair would be a curly mane,

As dark as deepest night.

Your lips would be a cherry red,

Your eyes so blue and bright.


Your skin, the colour of spun gold,

As caramel as his,

And on my lap, you’d sit and sing,

Your soft, sweet head I’d kiss.


In my arms, you’d croon and coo,

I’d nuzzle you so close,

And stroke your curls back from your face

And tickle your sweet toes.


When you were scared I’d kiss your cheek

And read you stories softly.

Your warm arms curled around my neck,

Your child’s breath breathing hotly.


When you were four or five or six

I’d take you to the park.

I’d push you gently on the swing,

We’d play and have a lark.


When you were fifteen, cold and cruel,

You’d drive my love away,

And I would wonder what I’d done;

I’d sit and cry all day.


When you were twenty-five or so,

We’d laugh and drink at lunch.

You’d tell me stories of your men,

They’d sound a wild bunch.


When you got married, dressed in white

I’d wear my purple hat,

And give you all my blessings, dear,

Your lovely face I’d pat.


When you’d a child all of your own

And your nights of sleep were gone,

I’d make you tea and rub your feet,

Sing you a soothing song.


When I lie dying in my bed,

My days and years all up,

You’d kiss my face and hold my hand,

And feed me from a cup.


But maybe I won’t have you,

After all of that.

I might not take that journey,

Ever wonder at that gap.


For it’s my choice, as it is his,

If our lives that way we’ll change,

And perhaps we don’t need you,

To feel this life’s full range.


Maybe instead we’ll dance alone

And travel the wide world,

And dine and drink and play at cards,


Not have our little girl.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll think of you,

Whatever we decide.

But I’ve a feeling if we don’t,

I’ll be ok, inside.


N.B. This is not a poem about abortion, its about a woman’s decision whether or not to start a family – so don’t get your knickers in a twist, yeah?