Quiet.

She opened the door
Of the nursery
And entered in.
All was quite now,

No sound,
Nothing except
The beating
Of her heart

Which beat faster
As she peered
In the baby’s cot
Which was empty

And still.
She quite expected
To hear
The baby’s murmur,

The sound
Of toss and turn,
A little cough
Echoing across

The darkened room,
The dim outline
Of the form
Beneath the duvet,

A tiny hand raised
As if in salutation.
She moved
To a nearby chair

And sat
And watched
The empty cot
And tried to pretend

That baby was there,
That the emptiness
Was gone,
That the biting pain

Had eased
And that maybe
If she sat long enough
The baby would return

And smile
And wave
And not be far away
In some small

White stoned
Baby’s grave.
But nothing was there,
Except the stillness,

Coldness
And the quietness
Of the nursery room
And the wished for

Baby’s ghostly form
In amongst
The shadows
Of the empty cot.