Some nights, my son,
I stare into the dark,
replaying those last scenes
by your hospital bed,
over and over,
inside my head,
like a gum shoe detective
searching through the debris
of memories for clues
to a hideous crime.

Some nights though,
I sleep right through,
looking in my dreams
for images of you.
What else
can a father do?

Some nights are sleepless
to a great degree,
twisting and turning
like a boat at sea,
rising up and sitting
in another place,
putting together,
like a jigsaw,
piece by piece
your smiling face.

Some nights
I want to drift away
and be where you are,
to hold and talk again,
whether near or far,
or just to sit and stare
and just be pleased
to see you and be there.

Some nights, my son,
I lay awake
waiting for the new dawn
and light to break,
recalling to mind
your young days,
the mischievous boy,
the teasing little brother,
the young Sky-walker,
the adventure lover.

Some times on the odd night,
I just get up
and sit and write,
tap in the words,
trying to pin it all down,
trying to get through
the dark waters
and not slip off
into the dark depths
and drown.