When I got home
I went out into the garden
Liking it when the frost bit
My old brown boots
And dug a hole the size of a baby
And buried the clothes
I'd bought anyway, just in case.
A week later I stood at my window
And saw the ground move
And swell the promise of a crop;
That's when she started crying.
I gave her a service then
Sang Ye Banks And Braes
Planted a bush of roses
Read from the Bible, the book of Job
Cursed myself digging a pit for my baby
Sprinkling ash from the grate.
Late that same night
She came in by the window
My baby Lazarus
And suckled at my breast.
Oh what a powerful poem. Is this inspired by a cot death, abortion, stillbirth? Who knows, but an excellent poem nevertheless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This went right to my heart. My first baby was born after nine months, lived 2 minutes and died. How well I remember taking the tiny clothes to the attic and putting them in a box and sealing it. One day, I found the box, could not imagine what it was for, opened it and just fell apart. This takes me back.