Mummy’s sleeping on her side

in the corner of the kitchen,

all curled up like a cat.

She hasn’t done her make-up very well…

she’s got dabs of purple all round her eye,

like violet petals squeezed dry

and there’s red sponge-painting on her cheek.

I’m not allowed to sponge-paint.

Her lips look juicy;

I think she’s blowing me a kiss.

I’ve been brushing Mummy’s hair

to make it nice.

It feels like golden clouds in my hand.

I collect balls and balls of it

and lay it on the floor ready for the birds.

I do dot-to-dot on her leg – just pretend –

trailing my finger between the little red circles

and I cover Mummy’s legs with her nightie

so she doesn’t get cold,

the way she covers me up and tucks me in.

I wash the dirt off her icy feet

with the dish-cloth

and jiggle on her slippers,

toes first, then, clunk, over the heel.

I think she is very tired.

She’s sleeping and sleeping and sleeping

and I am hungry, hungry, hungry.

Black streaks like little rivers

have run down Mummy’s face.

I think she’s been crying about

the terrible mess

and because she broke her favourite vase.