Sleep, Little Brother

He clutches at my fingers so tightly
I don't think he's going to let go.
I'm surprised that a boy so little
can hold onto me with as much strength as that.
His hand is so little, and mine seems too big; he's such a
very little brother.

Mummy always wanted me to have a brother,
a brother with tiny fingers and a grasp of steel:
a little brother just for me. It's funny to see his tiny smile as he
Reaches out for me with his strong, tiny little fingers.
I watch him sleeping, cosy in his cot,
snug as a bug with the funny toy clown my Grandpa gave him

just for being born.
I'd like a new toy too. I wish I
could be born again, and then maybe Grandpa
would get me my very own clown.
Mummy says that's impossible, but I think
she just doesn't want me to have a clown of my own.

My brother's only as big as my smallest doll
and my doll says more than he does.
My doll says "Mummy!" and my brother
only cries to let Mummy know he wants her.
He's so little I can hardly believe he's real and I
wonder if he'll ever be as big as me.

I slide away from where my brother sleeps,
as quiet as a mouse. He's smiling, smiling, smiling his tiny smile,
holding my finger tightly. I wiggle it for a moment -
his little hand moves too. I hope he doesn't
wake up and cry, because then my Mummy scolds me.
Sleep, little brother. Sleep.