written by: Stephen Kingsnorth
Here are thirteen days, all hallowed ground,
we sat beside his struggle cot,
and ours the gasp when grasp was lost,
left space far greater than his span.
Though tiny lad of days, not month,
his gracious giving to our lives
was that such scrap relied upon, our love;
the secret less in being loved
than a lover of a fragile soul,
a complement, to be, belong,
believe some day he’ll sing a song.
So, neither trick or treat resolved,
by blaming or in praising cause,
and little gained by masking up,
pretending only good or ill
inform our smiles, our tears, or frowns.
It’s not the time – maybe next year –
when we can gather sibling pairs,
and knock on doors with silly japes,
though more, by then will join our son,
e’en moved along, been passed through death.
We stay the shade, wight in our eyes
reflect on a bundle, tiny toes,
and would that he were man enough
to curl his fingers round our one.
By choice, I’d join him, hold his hand,
supportive father with his son,
but I’m held back by other two,
who want to walk the streets, knock on doors.
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