She wondered
If other mothers
Felt the same
When their baby died:
Dull, dark and empty,
As if part of them
Had been torn away,
Buried in another place,
Far off in some foreign ground;
Or cremated in a tiny box,
Small, white, plain and sad,
With flowers pink and red,
To mark the still and tiny dead.
She sat and stared
At passing prams,
Mothers smiling,
Fathers proud,
Baby's loud cries
Escaping to taunt and tease,
No light; no child to please;
No mouth to feed;
No child to kiss;
Never to forget;
Always to regret,
Always wanting,
In her turning nights,
To dream of baby well;
To hold and kiss
One final time
Her sweet and baby girl.
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Comments: 9
I like the way Gather is putting these together .