The clock turns slowly. The hour is at hand.

The widow breathes her last damp lungful of air

and produces,

as if on cue,

a screaming, unformed and ravenous offspring

to whom we offer our services, pledge our loyalty and celebrate

its arrival like a Medieval first born royal son.

 

The cold, wet night is grey and quiet,

all is hush as the muted labour pains continue

throughout the night and I watch from the vantage

point of my front step, trying to light

in vain