Hush my mother’s infant lusty
hush my fear-born brother nigh
rock you still in paper’s cradle
cry you not, or you will die
Rushes taller than your manhood
hide you now from club and sword
neighbours’ howls forget, and slumber
on the swaying water-sward
Rose a king who knew not Joseph
feared our numbers, feared our poise
feared our strength within his nation
spoke the killing of our boys
Cunning she who bore you quietly
cunning midwife I must be
cunning now to rock you, rock you
on the river tenderly
Hush, and hear not my heart beating
for the story that’s to come
mist-enfolded seeps toward me
in a howl that must be dumb
Silent children, silent women
silent men and silent bones
silent shoes in piles unnumbered
silent dust among the stones –
Here’s the woman with her women
with her barren sorrow bowed
jewels, gold and slaves unnumbered
cannot soothe her field unploughed
Cunning I, my mother’s daughter
cannot hush you, but can save
but can lift you from the water
king’s son make from son of slave
Running now to fetch my mother
running now to lose the sight
of the silent dust unslumbered
mist-encroaching through my flight
Mother, Mother, run and feed him –
of his origins be dumb –
close your ears against the howling
of the mothers still to come
This poem, inspired by Exodus 1–2, is published in The Poetic Bible, ed. Colin Duriez (Hendrickson, 2001).
Alison Leonard (born 1944) is a writer from the UK whose works include children’s and adult fiction, stage and (BBC) radio plays, poetry, and spiritual nonfiction. She is a Quaker and is deeply committed to interfaith dialogue and learning.
(Related posts: “Bithiah’s defiance: Kelley Nikondeha and poet Eleanor Wilner imagine Pharaoh’s daughter”; “Miriam,” a poem by Rachel Barenblat)
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