Bitter it is in the squally rain, my child swaddled in my arms.
They drag her from me, bag her small dead body in canvas,
Slide her into the sea
Into that vast black stretch    swallowed    closed.
I feel my flesh rip and blood swamp my emptied womb.

The Officer speaks words from a book.   Is it a prayer?
The words drop like stones about my feet.

I stand alone    my child borne, born in hell, thrown away
Like garbage

The Officer grabs at my arm. 'Get back to your place,' he shouts.
His touch burns like a brand, flames my resolve
To endure.

'Never mind, dearie.'
Rebecka's voice is hoarse with rum
'You're bound to 'ave another!'

© Winifred Weir