More than thirty thousand coronavirus deaths in Italy now. The same again and more in the UK. In excess of a quarter of a million around the globe. We mourn their loss and our hearts go out to their grieving families.
But this weekend our focus has entirely been inward facing and entirely personal. For yesterday was – would have been – was (we still find ourselves caught in limbo between the nearly-was and always-will-be) the twenty-third birthday of our stillborn only son, William.
The shadows remain; the pain persists. The love endures.
The unfinished symphony
The sculpture
Knocked from the pedestal
Just before
The final touch.
Though sleeping comes to birth,
Never living,
Never dies.
But continues its creation
In the hearts
Of its creators.
And so the symphony,
The masterpiece,
The stillborn child
Forever plays his melody
In his parents’ loving hearts,
In the hearts of his creators.
We read this unattributed poem at William’s funeral in a tiny country church in Wiltshire and in whose pretty graveyard he remains at rest…
Ms Marche 