Newborn

Cheyenne Dunnett

He’s not here yet, but I can picture him; skin like not-yet-embroidered cotton, eyes the colour of natural innocence. He’s like freedom, floating, fresh as the world after an afternoon’s soaking, ready to stare out at the spitting clouds.

The sky screams stormily, as grey-bruised as his mother’s skin; dyed by time, stained by pain, but she’s singing with the abandon of the mid-winter wind. Too aware of the ticking clock and the pulse of red-hot blood rushing through every limb.

Let me know when you give him a name. Tell me so that I can look up the meaning.