The Daddy could hear the screams
but couldn’t quite place the fuss at first,
his hands between a traffic of new daffodil bulbs
unsure of their growth in this damn spring weather.
Then those hands at the banisters,
at the chipped paint of the baby’s door,
at the Mummy crazy above the cot
shaking the Blue Anna
with her own busy fingers,
trying to push her cries
into the tiny lungs
or swallow the Blue Anna back within the womb,
to start this mess again
ten months before.
The Blue Anna,
too delicate to wake,
ignorant of all this excitement –
the way the Mummy’s panic
made purple her arms,
the way the Daddy lit up, momentarily,
thinking maybe he could turn her on outside,
cradle her alive like the Mummy’s fickle fingers could not.
A bird digs noisily for worms,
inconsiderate but for the season’s schedule.
The patter of rain
as loud in the mud as
the Daddy’s handfuls of silence.