Tense, she roams the street,
searching, sees someone,
a boy, like her son,
like the child he would’ve become.
Like the child that died in her arms,
but first in her womb,
where he sang songs to her,
to her keep smiling.
He said: ‘I will grow to become:
to be king,
to be the anchor you need
when you feel yourself veering.’
But the boy is only a grave now,
a marker of the past, the memory,
the dream, the nightmare,
a plot of land, a handful of dust,
a ghost running away,
chasing after her.