I walked round the house all morning,

expecting to see him at every turn,

touching places where he played.

 

People spoke, voices barely a whisper,

but the words were meaningless,

a language that was foreign to me.

 

The baby wailed in his pram,

shedding tears where I could find none,

my eyes dried by an intemperate rage.

 

Big Jim took Patrick outside, weeping

as never in the presence of death,

to spare him from glances of pity.

 

My eldest came, and I held his hand.

We each took comfort from the other,

in the premature loss of child and childhood.

 

When the ambulance came, we laid him

in the familiarity of his room, silent now,

with candles and snowdrops to guard him

 

until his final journey on the morrow,

seeking respite from the clamour

in my head that refused to give me peace.