INFANT MORTALITY
No buggy-pushing for you, my son
It’s done. You’re dead.
26 days we had you
Saw you. Felt you. Touched you.
And I am snake-bitten
Clouded and red
For all crumbles under you.
Shadow-fall
Penumbra: winter tree
Stripped.
Rain-shine on our time
You darling boy. So hard born, I sang.
Now even your blanket-smell has gone.
Nobody mentions you.
Kieran Sean Jack.
What else can I do for you?
No nursery-rhymes.
No golden times.
John Marks
Wed 9th Aug 2017 00:21
You are very kind Cynthia and much appreciated for your delicacy, as opposed to my severity. I have had this poem in my mind for 28 years.
John