It's raining today. Big, fat tears from the grey swollen sky.

This morning when I left the house, the sun was just peaking over the ocean. It was dazzlingly beautiful, even the green dew in the trees sparkled. I'm on birth-suite, and as I left the house and drove off, I thought to myself "Someone's going to have a baby today. I bet they're on the way to the hospital right now, all excited and nervous and filled with joy." A good day to be alive, to see new life. I sang along with the radio, full voice.

Hospitals, in the early morning, always seem dark. A concrete giant wakening from a fitful sleep. I changed into blues and headed to birth-suite, bounding along as the corridors wiped the sleep from their windows.

Several babies had been born over night. Other women had come in labouring. The midwives looked exhausted, the doctors bleary eyed. A baby had died. The grief was palpable; handover came and went on autopilot. It was the third death in a week. This was the worst.

Outside the skies opened. Rain so thick you could taste it indoors. The hills behind the hospital disappeared in the fog of wet. Black looming wet. I found some space alone. I sat and cried.