Mysterious fevers in Malvern,
fever in Worcester, burning her up.
The brave, sombre child,
did not understand why mama went away.
She came home frail, damaged, loving, yet
Mama lost his brother.
The one who would have been his friend.
His best friend. His closest friend. The boy who would
look out for him. Be there for him. Always.
His love in the womb extends from the tomb.
Mother’s loss and tears stifled.
She was told, ‘get a grip’ and ‘move on,’ as if to forget
The tiny child ~ innocent ~
a babe, never in arms.
No grieving for lost babies then,
they shuffled them away and
burned them in kilns
so no-one would miss them.
The mother suffers a lifetime of loss,
with an idea of how siblings feel.
We learnt these things painfully.
Today such babes are mourned,
buried. Time moves on and
we talk of tragedies.
Not so back then.
Polly Robinson © 2013