Not In Your Wildest Dreams.

Not in your wildest dreams
Did you envisage the baby’s death.

The colour of clothes, cot, wallpaper
And curtains of the nursery were
Thought out to the last detail, even
Imagining the colour of the baby’s eyes.

Names you went through from A to Z,
Boy or girl, not wanting to know
The baby’s sex, but keep as a surprise
Until the moment of birth.

Even through the labour pains
And final thrust and released joy
Of knowing whether girl or boy,
You never imagined that moment
Of silence, that scatter of whispers
Following on, and the words the doctor
Spoke, solemn face, no joke, no moment
For laughter: your baby’s dead.

The words flew like black crows
About and in your head; the noise
Vibrated each brain cell, each
Particle of what you called yourself.

You remember that day well:
The death, the words, your screams,
The last hold and look at your baby
Girl, the way the closed eyelids
Seemed like shells, the hair,
The curls, the warmth, the smells.

Not in your wildest dreams did you
Envisage the baby’s demise.

But sometimes, if you sit and gaze
At this or that, and hold your breath
For a moment or two, you imagine
Your baby girl opening her eyes,
Those two pearls of brightest blue,
Pushing aside the shells that held
Them closed, gazing up at you.