I wish I could write a song,
so in the dim grey light of winter mourning
I could immortalise the memory of you
for my children.
I would sing in the dark hours of the night
when the babe seeks comfort at my breast.
Croon the melody to her softly.
She could fall asleep
with memories of you
swimming through her mind
I could stand outside
and lament your passing;
every second that you are not here
to watch my children grow.
I would sing a song
and my notes would drift to the stars
where tiny fragments of your life rest still,
not gone and not forgotten,
just not here where I demand you be.
My grief is selfish,
maybe singing would be a selfish act
also.
