A very different Christmas time
not many years ago,
one I would wish that no-one else
experience or know,
whilst erstwhile partner (what fool I!)
screwed his most recent slut,
I lay with morphine pumping through
my veins. Strong stuff, it’s said. Yes, but
it may diminish feeling in
a body in a bed,
but nothing would diminish
anguish coursing through my head.
Out plopped the babe, this tiny boy
- so beautiful to me -
yet too ‘imperfect’ to be born
for all the world to see.
Still - his father was a cruel man
who knew not how to care,
knew not of strength or loyalty
or even ‘being there’.
Michael was the name we gave.
He lies now under snow
buried in a garden
where the head-bowed snowdrops grow.
Forgotten not, my wee young lad.
You could not make it through.
Yet your mother now, though bitter
has great gratitude to you.
Such joy, in time, comes with the pain;
you made me come to see
that life goes on; and through your death
real life embraces me.
Tara Sloblock
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-different-sort-of-christmas/
