A Cage To Hold My Dreams
Before The Charcoal Dawn
Elegy for a day-old baby girl
Wanting to live, the weakened pulse fights hard
to hold its rythym. Her little heart staggers
and stumbles, held between earth and sky by
a slender thread. Outside the shock-proof glass,
her parents and I pray that this tiny, precious
candle-flame will weather the awful storm.
'Yes, she'll do it, she's a fighter, she'll come
through,' we tell each other, but sometime before
the charcoal dawn, heaven cracks and lets her in.
I alone see the glittering coach pause at her
incubator, I alone hear the flutter of angel wings.
I understand none of this, imprisoned as I am by
earth-bound logic. Perhaps there is a reason why
some tyrants and murderers reach satisfying old
age whilst this baby dies, too young to be anyone
or have a name or speak a word. What magic pill,
whose loving kiss, can repair this vile damage ?
I can only imagine what she might have become,
faultless, perhaps, like her mother, with ribs like
a wire sculpture and a smile of pure gold.
Through my head fly images of things she will not
see. Leaves that swirl and dance in the street,
waves stroking a sandy shore, lazy daffodils
preening themselves in the sun.
She will not splash in a puddle or visit her
grandparents. She will never have a boyfriend,
or piano lessons or wear a party dress. She will
not hear the sigh of the wind, or feel rain on
her face. She will not know our love, constant
like God intended, and unblinking as the stars.
Perhaps she would not have wanted great things
for herself, as the rose, unaware of its true
worth, sits happily in the simplest garland.
When it is my turn to die, I may look back and
envy one whose leaving was not hard and sore
and lingering.
Wanting to live, the weakened pulse fights hard
to hold its rythym. Her little heart staggers
and stumbles, held between earth and sky by
a slender thread. Outside the shock-proof glass,
her parents and I pray that this tiny, precious
candle-flame will weather the awful storm.
'Yes, she'll do it, she's a fighter, she'll come
through,' we tell each other, but sometime before
the charcoal dawn, heaven cracks and lets her in.
I alone see the glittering coach pause at her
incubator, I alone hear the flutter of angel wings.
I understand none of this, imprisoned as I am by
earth-bound logic. Perhaps there is a reason why
some tyrants and murderers reach satisfying old
age whilst this baby dies, too young to be anyone
or have a name or speak a word. What magic pill,
whose loving kiss, can repair this vile damage ?
I can only imagine what she might have become,
faultless, perhaps, like her mother, with ribs like
a wire sculpture and a smile of pure gold.
Through my head fly images of things she will not
see. Leaves that swirl and dance in the street,
waves stroking a sandy shore, lazy daffodils
preening themselves in the sun.
She will not splash in a puddle or visit her
grandparents. She will never have a boyfriend,
or piano lessons or wear a party dress. She will
not hear the sigh of the wind, or feel rain on
her face. She will not know our love, constant
like God intended, and unblinking as the stars.
Perhaps she would not have wanted great things
for herself, as the rose, unaware of its true
worth, sits happily in the simplest garland.
When it is my turn to die, I may look back and
envy one whose leaving was not hard and sore
and lingering.
