The souls of my unborn children flock around me in the wind.

I’d never seen them before, but now they mock me like I’ve sinned.

“Why didn’t you want me, Mummy?” is what they say.

“Please let us into the world, so we can play.”

.

The souls of my unborn children can’t forgive.

“Why didn’t you want us, Mummy?  We wanted to live!

Were you always too busy?  Were you always too poor?

We don’t care if you’re not rich, Mummy – just let us in the door!”

.

The soul of my unborn baby is like a ship.

It set out some time ago, on a long trip.

It’s been coming towards me slowly, heading for port.

But its progress turns out to be slower than it thought.

.

Sometimes, just over the horizon, I’ve seen its sail.

But it’s trapped out there somewhere, in a gale.

It’s been waiting for permission to come in.

The patience of its passenger is wearing thin.

.

Now I see it turn and start to sail away.

The soul has given up – for it’s been turned away.

And now I’m running down the quayside, waving madly.

“Don’t go, my baby, for now I want you so badly!”

.

Maybe for all those souls who clamoured round my head,

It’s too late – maybe they’re dead.

But shout and scream and wail, so the ship will hear..

“Come here to Mummy, now – the way is clear!”

.

(October 2004)