These muted days

​Your blankets have been hot-washed, tumbled and donated 

and your corner of the kitchen is clear and simply a kitchen corner again, 

suitable for the storage 

of dustpans and brushes, dinner trays 

and a box of emergency toys and crayons for the kids.  

You were my baby 

and I loved you 

and I could have sworn fifty times today that you had come trotting shyly into the lounge, 

seeking a warm lap 

or my abandoned grey shawl to hide in. 

Our quiet little opportunist.  

My heart will miss your sweetness and the contentment of your sunlit dreams.  

The way your tiny body crumpled into our open hands at the end was swift 

and as fluid as water seeping into sand.  

You fainted and then you slept 

and that was death,

despite my consternation.  

But let’s not forget in these muted days, 

that life is still crouched here too, 

shivering with anticipation.