Ballad of the Unborn

My shining feet will never run on early morning lawn;

my feet were crushed before they had a chance to greet the dawn.

My fingers now will never stretch to touch the winning tape;

my race was done before I learned the smallest steps to take.

My growing height will never be recorded on the wall;

my growth was stopped when I was still unseen, and very small.

My lips and tongue will never taste the good fruits of the earth;

for I myself was judged to be a fruit of little worth.

My eyes will never scan the sky for my high-flying kite;

for when still blind, destroyed were they in the black womb of night.

I’ll never stand upon a hill, Spring’s winds in my hair;

aborted winds of thought closed in on Motherhood’s despair.

I’ll never walk the shores of life or know the tides of time;

for I was coming but unloved, and that my only crime.

Nameless am I, a grain of sand, one of the countless dead;

but the deed that made me ashen grey floats on seas of red.

Fay Clayton