A chronological collection of writing during my son’s first fortnight of life, in Neonatal ICU.
We slowly pick our way through treacle days,
Our arms outstretched in constant hesitation.
New born: each step in studied desperation,
Eyes down, to see the feet and find a way
To navigate. We stagger in directions
Dictated by this landscape we have made
Of scattered twigs and dust and naked questions
That sit like snares with open jaws. We wait
For day. But simple light is all it brings.
Illuminating what we cannot see
At night. And struggle still to really see,
With no idea of what these shapes could mean.