'A Child's Sleep' by Carol Ann Duffy

I stood at the edge of my child's sleep

hearing her breathe;

although I could not enter there,

I could not leave.

Her sleep was a small wood,

perfumed with flowers;

dark, peaceful, sacred,

acred in hours.

And she was the spirit that lives

in the heart of such woods;

without time, without history,

wordlessly good.

I spoke her name, a pebble dropped

in the still night,

and saw her stir, both open palms

cupping their soft light;

then went to the window. The greater dark

outside the room

gazed back, maternal, wise,

with its face of moon.