I remember times when you would cough,
splutter back cups of milky cream.
The curdled cries after your fall
and cleaning rivulets from a cut
that gushed with pain. Red and slick
I could stomach, but it was the tired look
in your eyes, the mum we need to talk,
that made me stop and notice the lost tick
of the clock. Against your age I fought
to keep my baby in her cot.
Published by Pastiche Magazine
Highly commended in the York Writers Poetry Competition