Tuesday 10 September 2013

Baby, Baby

A young acquaintance of mine,
and she types the words,
but I can well  hear
the outrage in her voice,
says she cannot believe
this kind of thing is allowed.
She is, herself, not much more than a child,
a young life, like this one,
yet she has been sick;
she has battled to live;
she has suffered;
she has survived.

And I, I am glad of it.
I see her photographs
proliferate on Facebook:
young, laughing, lovely;
silly, sometimes wild.
I did not know her then
but, when she was a child,
she must have been
a pixie, a darling –

You must have been a beautiful ba-by
because, ba-by, look at you now.

I think of my own daughter, smart as paint,
at seven or eight years old.
She had pink ribbons in her hair;
her eyes were full of light.
What if this had been her, what would I have done?
I like to think I might have killed him.
But then I think: what next, what next?
How would life limp on?

Beautiful baby, beautiful baby,
you were a beautiful, beautiful baby.
You grew and grew, more beautiful.
You grew into a wonderful child.

Now I think of this child,
who is neither my acquaintance nor my daughter,
who will never grow to womanhood
and the mauling of a mother's great love.
I think of her terror as much as her pain
and the horror of it all defeats me.

You must have been a beautiful ba-by
because, ba-by, look at you now.

Abigail Wyatt