The doctor’s say it is his heart’s murmur <br />that keeps him small <br />like a doll <br />he carries with him throughout the day. <br /> <br />But I know, that like a great fish <br />in a small tank, <br />though his dorsal fin will curl, <br />he will outgrow it, <br />this limiting, childhood of his; <br /> <br />And, being grown, discard his little pond; <br />And surface up, somewhere, in the Atlantic… <br />Having escaped the crossfire <br />between his parents: <br />Two warring Continents that ravaged his world <br />before his eyes! <br /> <br />I know he fears the open spaces <br />between us, <br />like a Battlefield, a “No Mans’ Land”. <br />And the occasional but tenuous cease fires <br /> <br />I know, no, I believe in his tale <br />because, wounded, his hearts’ murmur, <br />Whispers it, as so…<br /><br />John Tansey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-runt-of-the-litter-to-my-son-dylan/
