by Francis Jock

Created on: September 01, 2010   Last Updated: May 02, 2012

He was only six years old.
We didn't know his name, but
We saw him playing with his brother, and
Sometimes working hard at mowing
The grass in front of the farmhouse.

We smiled then, and shared the memory,
Now held dearly within our hearts.

There are tears just behind these eyes.
A quivering upper lip, breath forgotten.
Numb disbelief, as
The driver never had a chance
To slow down before the Tragedy.

Death grasps hard the heart and
Roars in the ears of the living that have
Died with him.
Time slows as the gray and black
Solemnly take the place of laughter and joy.

You can feel the tragedy
When a father loses his son,
A mother's lullaby no longer sung,
A brother lost without his sun.

Lay the grass gently on his grave,
Then listen to the tumbling wind for
His laughter as he plays with the angels
And rattles the window pane, looking in.

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