The Unborn

 Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
The children we could have,
The glimmer of them.


Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing 
In some antechamber - servants, half-
Listening for the bell.
 

Sometimes I see them lying like love letters
In the Dead Letter Office

And sometimes, like tonight, by some black
Second sight I can feel just one of them
Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea 
In the dark, stretching its arms out 
Desperately to me.

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