The thirteenth poem from my poetry collection Conception.

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The mountains and valleys

Watching my husband in the big black void
of switched-off television set, I see
reflected back, there, right in front of me,
the greatest tale to ever cross the screen.

He lies asleep among the grey mountains
and valleys of our futon sofa, his head
supported by the metal frame; a bed
where childhood dreams play out their game again.

They take him back to before I knew him,
to mountains and valleys where soldiers hid,
the bang-bang of guns and screeching skid
of toy cars crashed and overturned for fun.

Now worries and fears lurk among the same
mountains and valleys that once set him free,
yet, in peaceful sleep, it still seems to me
his face too smooth, too young for a father.