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.