Childless Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

Its life was a raw wound
that would not heal.
The priest had tried so often.
But all could feel

the squat foreboding that glared
at them from nowhere.
He even exorcised the house
from the cellar to the top of the stairs.

He counselled the couple
whose grief was a raw sound:
they had been given a life
that was somewhere around.

The priest retreated to the church.
All that was left was prayer.
The couple remained at home
waiting, unprepared.

The child was barely four.
Had never uttered a word.
But anguish tied them to it
like an umbilical cord.

They saw the dark eyes deaden
with life, the raw wound gape
(the priest came even more often,
and doctors, but there was no escape) .

They watched the cold eyes listen
to their silence, larger than solace:
held death warmly to them
and kissed its face.