Anne CaseyClouds swarmed in great dark clumps
a malformed day transformed to murk
as she was dumped – a squall settling
beyond wailing walls, wind bawling
Following through the icy halls
head bowed, bag in hand
flat soles slapping cold stone flags
and the flailing later
Rain pelting the rattling panes
sleety pellets rat-tat-tattling
piercing rivulets streaming in
streaking spittle sprayed in the face
A dark veil drawn
across her devil’s spawn
born under a cloud
a storm in stained swaddling
This pink squirming sin
slight in the hand
delivered to darkness as the
paling face of the day turned away
To a railing night
silent mite
dispatched before
he ever saw the light
(In memory of the eight hundred unnamed babies whose remains were recovered from a mass grave at the former Tuam Mother and Babies Home in Ireland, and the many others yet to be discovered.)
