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All Hallowed

Here’s 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, our love;

the secret less in being loved

than 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 pair,

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 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 doors.


First Published by Spillwords

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