On the Illness of a Son

Let me take you, child,

Down where the bittern booms

Where the reed-heads

Wave with lazy ease

And harriers wheel and climb

Against a blue-gauzed sky.

And I will show you, son,

The bluebell-dappled wild garlic wood

Where dark-fingered oaks bow

Before the sea-cooled April wind.

Together we will hear

The cuckoo’s crystal call

And watch the cattle, slow-dreaming,

Sweep across the forgotten field.

They will not heal your sorrow

Nor smooth your furrowed brow

As un-cried sadness

Weighs your faltering step.

But Nature knows your torment

And will hold you as you pass

To hear her silence whisper

That with our maverick fears

They are as nothing, our dreams and days