In five stark lines, a parent registers a terrible, sudden loss. The opening images are cold and violent: a small cry breaks the night, and a stain of red appears against whiteness, suggesting blood and danger. The moon dips, the wind blows dully, and then the plain statement lands: “My unborn son is dead.” Nothing is explained; we are left inside the shock. The wintry, dark landscape mirrors the speaker’s numbness and grief, while the red against white makes the loss feel vivid and wound-like. The mood is hushed and sorrowful, as if the whole world is receding with the child. The final line is deliberately bare—no exclamation, no ornament—because the fact alone is heavy enough. That directness makes the sorrow feel intimate, private, and final.
Unborn — Summary
Swift across the night a little cry, Against the cold white night a stain of red, The moon dips down, The dull winds blow. My unborn son is dead.