You are but a shadow in the sunshine of my imagination, And though I understand, that I was never intentional, Surely accidents aren't erased by the burning of pictures. And I still wonder how could my life have been small enough to squeeze into a plastic bag, Handing it to me on my fathers empty doorstep like some goodwilled goodbye gift, (But I guess mothers are always better at packing). I do hope, however, that Ian's grip fade far away, like the 1am echo of your tear soaked cheeks, And that cold bruises will heal before a warmer man, Someone whose hands will float gently onto yours, Carried upon the last draught of winter, This time, forever. Maybe you'll have a fifth child - an only child, One for whom I pray there's a shred of chance you'll learn to love. But meanwhile, the little boy that you keep safe, In the ashes of a cold fireplace, Impolite dinner conversations, Or the memories you'd rather forget, Will be waiting, always waiting, For a shadow, in his little world of sunshine.