A poem based on birth notes from my Mother.
From White Ash to Golden Years
Benedict, born on a November morn,
Two days of labour before you were born—
At Kingsbury’s doors where worry and calm
Held hands together like psalm after psalm.
You entered the world in a breath barely there,
A feeble cry hanging thin in the air;
Pale as white ash, a flicker of flame,
As doctors whispered your trembling name.
Into the incubator’s soft humming glow,
Fed by the bottle, watched close head to toe,
Your colour a puzzle, your future unsure—
A heart weighted down, but a spirit so pure.
Talk of hemorrhage, danger, delay,
And fears that would shadow your earliest day;
Yet hope, like a mother, kept vigil so tight,
Breastfeeding you back into comfort and light.
Three days in, they let you go home—
A tiny soul ready for battles unknown.
Monthly clinics checked reflex and limb,
Measuring futures that wavered and dimmed.
But slowly, the doubts began to unwind—
A walking action firm and kind;
Sitting at six months, walking at one,
Words at fifteen months—bright as the sun.
Illnesses trivial, though an eye caused some fear,
An Egyptian something—strange to the ear;
Drops and shampoos, and suddenly clear,
As if even your ailments knew you were dear.
Vaccines lined up like milestones themselves,
Polio, measles, smallpox on shelves—
Each one marking a step on the way
To the sixty bright candles you're blowing today.
From frailty’s cradle to strength full-grown,
From oxygen whispers to a life of your own;
You rose from beginnings both fragile and small
To stand, six decades later, tall.
So here’s to the journey that started unsure,
To the boy who proved love steady and pure;
To the colour returning, the spirit that grew—
Benedict at sixty—
A miracle all through.
