It is a small thing, after all,
small enough to be thought lost
when we woke, snowblind and feeble,
to the inconceivable
needleslip of blood,
the drift of cotton
smirched with heartbreak
and the panic of jackdaws
beating in our eaves.
It is the size of a peach stone,
rucked and wet threaded;
then of passion fruit,
a clutch of smeared eyes
in a hammered hull.
It consoles itself
in the interspersed darkness
of ambulance journeys,
combs out the braids of sea noise,
listening for sirens.
It swells to a hush
just shy of the solstice.
We lie in wait, for a skip in the trace,
for the handsbreadth left to cross
before love can breathe.
Paraic O’Donnell 
I keep coming back to this poem; there is an element to it that disturbs me but not in an unkind way, more in the way of the need to check that something is still in place.
Is this poem something to do with a baby? Perhaps you’d prefer not to discuss it.