She is like thrown confettti,
snagged in crevices and dents tumbled, ravaged and wild.
Flung by a troublesome wind.
Her colours seep bleeding now laying underfoot,
sodden in droplets captured by the etched inscriptions,
inscribed in the stone cold slabs.
Her velveteen voice unknown,
her name a wisper unrecognised.
Yet she shrill of her dormant infant cries resound and echo undulating,
pulsating forever in the ears of the living,
as though the grass with dewy eyes they softly tread…

A poem about Elspeth Alice Stewart, who was born in the village of Lochinver, Scotland on the 1st March 1722 and died on the 2nd June 1722 aged just 3 months. Like many babies of that era she was buried in a paupers grave in fields laying at the back of the church of Scotland Lochinver…

Tracey Louise Brunning

1 kommentar till She

  • Mats Klasson  säger:

    Thank you Tracey for this very special poem, where you bring forward this child, with a very short life, a long time ago.

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