Birth Of A Polar Bear

Tucked under snow,
snug in a cavern
hollowed by body heat,
my son was born.

He gave no trouble.
Easily as a thought,
no bigger than a comma,
he slipped from the womb.

I licked him and loved him.
Blind as a new–born mouse
he nosed through thickets
of warm fur to find
the necessary milk;
threaded his way round my armpit,
helping himself to comfort
just as he pleased.

From time to time the roughness of my tongue
discovered the roughness of his pelt
as in a dream.

But now the four months' polar night
warms into polar spring.
Time to become a working mother.
Time for a harder birth into an unkind world.