I watch them wriggling their brand new toes,

Swinging soft arms at some unknown foes;

I watch their little chests  heave with life

And ponder on mine: its gains its strife.

 

The trees have gone from seed to giants

In front of the home where I bugged my parents

For care: baby, infant, toddler on a mission

To understand this world and beyond the horizon.

 

My head from curled wrapped nappy hair

Has gone through jungle thick to little hair

And the black in the surviving tuft

Starts to thin, leaving a grey so roughed.

 

This much I realise from the innocent foetus

To the wriggling fellows, to adults roaming cities,

Not prosperity, nor love, nor pain, nor parents can be sure,

But one things is: that one day you’ll be no more.

 

(c) Nyonglema