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The Lost Poem

Sitting on the floor
of my bedroom
one evening
I took paper - scrap,
destined for lesser things
than penning a poem
to my son for his
eighteenth birthday -
and pencil - B2,
definite broad soft
in the writing
and opened the door
into my heart
with all my dreams and prayers
for him.

The words flowed -
the promise of care,
the acceptance of mistakes,
the certainty of love,

the offer to be there
with superglue
and soothing balms.
Faster and faster the words
racing ahead of my fingers
and my mind, they seemed
to flow through my hand
and down the pencil to appear
magically as marks on this white paper.

I read it and it was good.
It said all my heart needed to say
to this most special of Souls
on his special (grown up) day.

Came the eve of the twentysixth
my excitement bubbling with anticipation
I went to take this poem
and scribe it honourably onto parchment
and ready my gift to him
for the morrow.

Ah what sorrow when I found
no sign of paper - scrap or otherwise -
I filled my eyes with dust and cobwebs
searching 'neath the bed
and felt my heart
fill with dread at the absence,
the lack of care, this mistake.

Ten years I have peered
through boxes of papers
boxes of books
even
boxes of Junqued Stuff
with still a touch of anguish
at the loss
and with just a touch of
pretended hope, let's call it
a wish:
that one day, I shall find a pile
of white butcher's paper such as
that from which I tore this precious
scrap to write upon;
and there, in the centre of the pile,
wrapped with care for safety,
a yellowing slip of paper, the
broad soft lead of the pencil marks
still definite, still there: those words
my heart sent out to him,
my son, my soul comforter.

Learn more about this author, Jane Eliza.
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