A very different Christmas time <br />not many years ago, <br />one I would wish that no-one else <br />experience or know, <br />whilst erstwhile partner (what fool I!) <br />screwed his most recent slut, <br />I lay with morphine pumping through <br />my veins. Strong stuff, it’s said. Yes, but <br />it may diminish feeling in <br />a body in a bed, <br />but nothing would diminish <br />anguish coursing through my head. <br />Out plopped the babe, this tiny boy <br />- so beautiful to me - <br />yet too ‘imperfect’ to be born <br />for all the world to see. <br />Still - his father was a cruel man <br />who knew not how to care, <br />knew not of strength or loyalty <br />or even ‘being there’. <br />Michael was the name we gave. <br />He lies now under snow <br />buried in a garden <br />where the head-bowed snowdrops grow. <br />Forgotten not, my wee young lad. <br />You could not make it through. <br />Yet your mother now, though bitter <br />has great gratitude to you. <br />Such joy, in time, comes with the pain; <br />you made me come to see <br />that life goes on; and through your death <br />real life embraces me.<br /><br />Tara Sloblock<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-different-sort-of-christmas/
