Child, by Mary McCarthy

Child, by Janis Rozentāls (Latvia). 1897.

Child

I thought we were
Out of night's dark wood
Your fever down
Your small body
Close in my arms
I thought what safer place
Than this bright clearing
In sweet air
Where the sun is warm
And small birds busy
Chattering their way
Through morning

But the birdsong stops
And the leaves grow still

Nothing moves
As death comes to us
Barefoot and hungry
Wrapped in linen
White as a hard scar
White as a leper
White as ash
When the burning's done

She bends down swift
Silent as the owl
Stoops to her kill
Taking your breath
With one touch
Of her cold lips

No mercy
I hold you close
But you are gone
Beyond rescue
One more tender life
Taken by frost
​
Mary McCarthy 

This poem was written as part of the Ekphrastic Halloween surprise challenge.
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Mary McCarthy  has always been a writer, as well as a visual artist and a Registered Nurse. She has been published in many online and print journals, and has an echapbook "Things I Was Told Not to Think About" available as a free download from Praxis magazine online.