The nights
seem longer now,
darker, depressing,
the moon
a laughing clown,
getting me down.

The days seem
less brighter now,
the hours passing
like ghostly scares,
minute upon minute
clocking up a speed,
the joy of being
in need of watering
or a newer feed.

Certain days
of the week
come and haunt
and replay
the dark hours
and ugly pain,
the losing of you,
my son,
all over again.

I see your face
as it was
those last days,
it come to me
in dreams or
in the still hours
between this or that,
comes vivid
yours eyes,
my stoic son,
that liquid blue,
darker seeming,
a different seeing,
another you.