(A poem for the amazing mothers pumping milk for sick or premature babies)


A photo sits beside me,  a machine plugged in.

The whirr of suction motors, tissues in the  bin.

Milk drips into plastic, ounce after precious ounce.

Arms longing  for my baby, to kiss and hold and bounce.


Wall clocks tick-tock and cold pumps hum low.

Through endless NICU days and nights painfully slow.

A voice within me whispers, ‘keep going, don’t you stop’.

I’m pumping for my baby and there’s love in every drop.







3 responses »

  1. Beautiful!! My son was a micro-premie he was born at 25 weeks and this sums up how I felt everyday pumping my milk for my precious baby.

  2. Thank you for this 🙂 my son was full term but critically sick at birth. Expressing my milk for him got me through as it was the only thing I could do to help him at the time. I’m going to put a copy of this poem in his memory box!

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