Your wounded eyes sent milk of hazel marching down your face to scarlet sills. You shivered from grief, spoke its name. It was someone asleep in oak your Mothers name. Your baby hands bludgeoned her mottled hands, Infant like again in a black frock you last wore for your Father Your open legs, birthed another her birthed another you. It shrieked as if it knew; calm only when I sang to her a song my Dad wrote for me ‘When the March moon rises the wolves will sing your tears, and where the river lies is a reflection of her years. When the march moon fades we will sing for wolves, and where your Mother lays is where the silver falls’. (Partly inspired by Ted Hughes poem 'life after death')