The Midwife
Weary is the soul
Of the midwife, poured out
In un-numbered hours,
Beside the mother whose labour is counted in days.
Aching is the body
Of the midwife, who returns
To routine mundane. Displaying little
Of the struggle, nor the joy, nor the triumph
In which she has shared her place.
Heavy are the shoulders
Of the midwife, knowing well
Her greatest achievements lie hidden
Within the walls of the birthing room,
And the hushed tones of confidentiality.
Hidden, within the earliest hours of morning
As she embraces the arrival of time’s newest soul.
Hidden, behind the apologies
Of a perpetually rescheduled calendar.
Behind the solitude of paperwork.
The solitude of travel.
The solitude of responsibility.
Courageous is the midwife
Carrying concern, for the woman who discloses
And for the woman who does not.
Mastering the fear, ever present,
That threatens exhaustion. Threatens loss.
Threatens accusation for intervening.
Threatens accusation for not.
Wise is the midwife
Who reasons, diplomatic,
With the voice of opposing opinion,
“All is yet well. It will benefit us to wait”.
Knowing is the midwife, slowly nodding
In silence with mama-to-be;
As face-to-tear-soaked face,
And side-by-sweat-soaked side,
Mama protests, “I can not go on!”
Exhausted is the mother
Who wavers, peering into
The abyss of human limitation.
Doing battle with pain. Battle with doubt.
Battle with self, and battle with the lie,
“I am weak”.
Familiar is the midwife
With vulnerability, as she observes
Motherhood on the horizon,
And knows that here, from this place, comes power.
Whether from within, or from without,
It rises. Ancient. Feminine. Divine.
Powerful is the mother, now surrendered.
New strength rising from the abyss.
Surpassing her fears, urgent and overtaking,
The force of life. The will to push.
The will to fight. The will to love.
Courageous is the mother, reaching forward.
Arms joyful, with all she has left.
And time, passing by, stops still
As midwife and eternity wait, hinged
Upon the cries of creation’s first breath.
She is born! And with her
A new courage. A new Power. A new strength.
A new mother.
Lifted is the soul
Of the midwife, poured out
In un-numbered hours
Beside the mother whose labour is counted in days.
