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.