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Darkling Son still
Darkling Son still.
The weight of a child
I never held haunts me.
The plastic bag that took him away.
The softness of flesh not caressed.
The little wrist tag with his name;
a name he never heard.
Hope swift as an egg
cracks and spills out an essence -
irredeemable - one instant whole
the next loss.
I wonder about
the colour of his eyes,
the feel of his hand,
the sound of his laughter,
the smell of his scalp.
Love
bridges all divides
even between those who are
and he who never was.
He who is
my darkling boy; a negative
photographic construct
amidst the positives
of my life.
My darkling son -
a voice that calls,
a hand that reaches,
a life not touched -
ripples across the years.
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