Wednesday, 13 July 2011

Thomas

I wrote this eight years ago about something that happened fifteen years ago. For the full story, see ‘Mother’s Day’ (April).


You weren’t very pretty
when you came out –
all wrinkled and red.
They dressed you in a bonnet and shawl
and  put you in a crib
then showed you to us both
even though you were dead.
Frog cried buckets
so I stayed brave.
Frog’s brave now
but I can’t cry any more.
I’m the one who’s dead,
while you sail on
and spring comes to Devon.

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