Being the Guest

I arrived broken hearted with our newly-born son. I was welcomed, but it was the last resort.

Tears tumble down as in the small hours I suckle their grandson. I want to be a proper wife, not a guest in this minute cottage.

For how long before he rescues me? From winter, to spring, to summer, the newborn sitting up in his pram, please let it not go on for ever.

I would like to walk away to pretend I never did meet the man, or bear his son.

Joan H

© 2016 Yeadon Writers

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