The baby is never far
From your thoughts; each
Passing pram or pushchair
Nudges you into looking,
Into remembering, aching.

You try to turn your head
When some mother feeds
From breast some baby in arms,
You hold back the tears, when
Reflecting on how the small

Mouth opens like some frail
Fish out of water and you want
It to be yours, your breast
The baby latches onto, your
Eyes that the babe searches

In wonderment. Often nightly,
You tiptoe to the phantom cot
And gaze at the ghostly image
That ought to be there, never
Far from your thoughts, never

More than a fingertip away
Is the memory of that last hold,
That final gaze, that eased out
Wheeze and you left out in
Grief’s dark corridor and cold.