My Son, My Son Poem by Owain Glyn

I sit here in the fading light
Alone.
I'm still, although my weakened, wasted frame
Occasionally dances with the cold.
I'm old now, and live with just my thoughts
Of you
Where are you now?
Does your body feed and nourish
Many trees and flowers?
Do noisy bees disturb your sleep?

I remember chubby fingers
Grasping thumbs
To help you first perambulate
With chuckled glee that set you free
To mingle with your destiny.
I'm old now, and live with just my thoughts
Of you.
Did they feed you well, my son?
Or did they just give you a gun
And tell you God was on your side?

That hollow day on which they came to say
How bravely you had died
I fed them tea, and choked on sympathy
I cried.
I'm old now, and live with just my thoughts
Of you.
Did your bowels flood at sight of blood?
which soon you recognized as yours.
Will history reward your sacrifice?
No! it will soon forget, and seek new fools!

I'm old now; I wish I could remember you more clearly.
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