Sometimes we can't have what we want.

In memory of a child who didn't make it

For you who crouches in the womb,
I have set aside a small room
That faces the powerful sun,
And decorated it with familial fun,
Images from nursery rhymes
And protective wind chimes,
Hanging from the ceiling
But I have a feeling
That you won't come here,
Nay, I have a real fear
That you'll die before
I open the bedroom door,
And so it came to pass
That a lover and his lass
Lost a love-child, love-child,
Meek and mild, meek and mild,
And the rhymes were all about falling down,
The chimes as silent as a ghost town.

Twenty-seven years on
And the room has gone,
But the hurt maintains
For the grave remains.

Chris Fernie, 2006

Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 481 times
Written on 2006-09-19 at 22:26

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Judy T Lloyd
This is very sad and well I remember my own lost son. It was 23 years ago.