My lovely healthy strong young son.
Yet if times were different
You would have no doubt gone
To foreign fields of death and pain.
Grown up quickly, become a man.
Seen things no sane person should have seen.
While I spent my time wondering if you were safe.
Knitting socks, raising funds,
Letting them melt my garden gate.
Dreading every letter or telegram.
I can cry at just the thought of it.
What if you had not come back?
No body to bury, no grave to tend.
Grieving but secretly not believing
My flesh and blood was really gone.
My precious one, my only son.
© Morton Gray