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.