Little hands, fingernails, unblinking eyes,
No songs of sleep and peace.
A muffled voice, a deepened frown,
They watched your heartbeat as it drowned.
Two birds one stone
Two lives gone
"A Catholic country," she claimed.
But what's that worth
When thousands flee
And never return the same?
Eight hundred buried without care,
Four thousand more rotting away,
No homes to go to,
Not a Christian prayer,
For the unborn, they are saved.
This poem is for the 12 women who every day make the journey from Ireland to England in an attempt to take control of their own bodies. It is also for the 796 corpses found in the septic tank in a mother and baby home in Tuam, whose ages ranged from days old to 7 years.
