Nativity In Summer (Poetry)

I only have my mother’s account
to go on — she and I
being two suvivors who
were there on the occasion

It was June and a hot wet summer
with fierce storms — Wagnerian
in drama — rain lashing through
open windows and flooding the ward

so the heavily-laden beds
were marooned — small islands
with their pregnant castaways
unable to navigate the treacherous shallows

Mops and buckets, towel and pillow sandbags
and all those physically able to
dealt with and drove the deluge back —
a diversion from tropic heat and boredom

Inbetweenwhiles expectant fathers came and went
with flowers already wilting
my father among those anxious young men
I imagine his face flushed and running with
                                                perspiration

I was a long time putting in an appearance
which set the tone for life — too often late
but at last my mother’s waters broke
I regret to say I didn’t give her an easy birth

It was a Saturday around six o’clock apparently
a local cricket match in progress the evening dry-ish
our sporty family doctor called off the pitch
to stitch my mother up. My claim to a few minutes fame —

my arrival interrupted play ...