THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2003

 
Pauline Rowe
MY DAUGHTER, SUNDAY MASS
  My daughter's lie-down protest, Sunday mass
shows me how tall she is, how bright,
stretched vertically beneath the bench she's
as still as St Cecilia. Is
unbiddable - a girlish Luther.
Here she lies, she can do no other.


She tells me that the wooden tiles are cool
against her face. That light is blue
across the statue's outside heart.
She stares uncomprehending at the watch
her father passes to her open hand.
She likes its movement. Can't yet understand

the meaning of its face. She climbs into my arms.
I carry her. We make our slow way home.


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