I stand with my child
strapped to my chest
held tight in her polyester pouch,
by velcro tabs and plastic clips.

The wallaby stands near the door,
her joey poking its head out.
And they stare at us,
and we stare at them.

And I have no more idea
of what my baby thinks
of the wallaby and her child
than I do
of what the wallaby’s baby
thinks of us.


One from the archives, 29/03/2013. I found it while rummaging for something else. We used to get a lot of visits from a particular wallaby, and often she had a joey.


Filed under poem

5 responses to “pouches

  1. This reminds me of an encounter I had of a deer and her baby. I was with my granddaughter and we all paused and observed each other. The feeling was one of acknowledgement.

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