A little death
All around your little life
we built a nest of thoughts,
of plans,
of projects,
of inordinately special things
just to do with you.

Books to be read
sat waiting on bookshelves,
apples hung hopefully, smiling
on trees, daffodil bulbs were planted
and eagerly grew in secret under the soil.
Snuggly jumpers were imagined
and embroidered with sailing ships
and lighthouses blinking their warnings
on a knitted nightscape
of midnight-blue.

And we planned to take you
to Thailand to visit the boys who dress
in saffron robes and dream of eternity
daily. And O the days we would have --
those endless yellow days
that saunter into other worlds
where dragons snort fire
and words make no sense
and rocket ships are as commonplace
as blowflies that hover in Summer
with bees and early autumn leaves.
Little appliquéed trouser suits would arrive
in the post -- decorated with puppy dogs
and fast red cars and Christopher Robin
saying his prayers or walking with Pooh
in the rain ...

All of us were yearning to see
that day when you would emerge
shining and fragile and new.
We loved you
and wanted to hold
your body,
and cradle you into our arms.
Your tiny fingers would curl around ours
and showers of love would fall
like the enormous lazy fireworks that drift
across the sky as gently as moondust,
and love-cries would hum in your ears as softly
as your mother's heartbeats.
We longed for that day
like love-sick people,
smitten before their time.
But Oscar darling,
you slipped away,
too wise
to enter this space.
And one day
you'll welcome us
in party clothes,
and sheepishly make your excuse.

for dear friends
May 1998

Diane Caney, 1998
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