Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Walking with my baby in the park and slowing for someone

I hadn’t seen in years, I heard myself interrupting coos

to say, You know I lost my first child, don’t you?

As if there were a possibility she might turn up again,

with my glove or best pen. That a sweep of the sofa

might reward me her hand, then body, pulled from the gap

between cushions. As if all I did was lose sight of her.

That an anxious scan of sand could bring her into focus,

squat and peering at shells. As if I could swear

I had hold of her earlier, that a frantic spill of my bag

would bear lip gloss, chewing gum, keys and I’d be

unable to explain, apologising for my dreadful mistake.

As if one day, I could run from my house, screaming ‘Found!’

Lift her for the whole road to see, shouting ‘Here she is! Here she is! She is here!’