Midwinter

No sun this morning, but the promise of a tilt
and so men on the radio talk about things we can’t see.
Plaques and residues are tangling themselves
around your brain like triskels on Newgrange granite,
but the baby has found the cockles of her fists
and is unspiralling their curls
into darting cuttlefish.

We only talk about this: the things we can see,
the things that are certain –
the baby’s wriggle when we sing to her, her liquid grin,
and not the shadows in the corner of the room,
the bright blooms on the negative of your CT scan,
the dark mornings to come.