Baby day.
That was it,

that day her
baby died,

stiff and white,
the Teddy,

dumb looking,
sat staring,

just a toy
not caring.

Early day
is the worse

of all times,
when her world,

baby world,
ceased to be,

and numbness
took over,

dark hours,
days and months,

and now years.
None went there,

baby's room,
except her;

the husband
ignored it,

the others,
grandparents,

other kids,
past tense talked

baby's death,
turned blind eye

to the place
of the death.

She alone
visited

each morning
to check cot,

pat Teddy,
tidy up

the blankets,
one pillow,

and pull down
the toy string

making an
angel sing.

Then each night
she repeats

rituals
of palm blown

soft kisses
to the spot

where ghostly
baby smiles

phantom lips,
that no one,

except she,
and teddy,

ever see.