When the baby slips...

When the baby slips, warm from the womb, from a familiar wetness to the moisture of its mothers thighs, its eyes alight.

Bright and clear, wonderful and wandering.

 It knew where it was going long before it came.

I watch the baby, pale blue but changing, toes tinge pink and spread a little in anticipation of what its wrinkled skin might touch. Colour reaches arms, chest, face, and the eyes that were before such a glow in a sea of cool coloured flesh are now matched with a body awash with the same dazzling life.

Eyes meet eyes, breath is shared in a harmonious inhale as mother and infant regain the rhythm of unity that they have shared for so many moons.

This is the moment that all have waited for. In the dimness of the birthing room, the air scented with the sweetness of amniotic waters and new beginnings, an old soul has entered the world again and the memories of his past illuminate him. Not visible to all but there nonetheless, the mother and child shine silver and pink and gold. A searching mouth finds its habitat and nuzzles, liquid gold starts a little and halts; begins again to ease out and nurture the baby in the sort of tiny volume that is as precious as water in the desert.

When the baby slips, warm from the womb, not coerced or forced but calm and free, from a familiar wetness to the warmth of its mother’s embrace, the world stops turning for a second and the sun, moon and stars hold no comparison to the dazzle of the duo who knew each other long before their fingers touched.