Along the Bowers Gifford footpaths worn,
And through the fields where once we often walked,
To old St. Margaret’s Church,
Again I pass your place, my heart still torn;
I hear the thousand things of which we talked
In leaves of rustling birch –
Your place, where now you lie at peaceful rest,
Where once we played in distant golden days
Now gone; but here you stay.
“When shall we go to heaven?” was your request,
When innocence was yours in all your ways.
“One day, my son, one day.”

And thirteen years of sorrow have now passed
Since, on your own, that journey you did take
To yonder realms unseen.
Time has not healed the aching wounds at last,
Which ripped apart our very soul and break
Us with what might have been.
How often have I seen your face in crowds,
Or heard your footsteps coming through the gate,
Or caught, in dreams, a sight
Of your kind face – but then the vision clouds;
Great anguish grips my mind and then I hate
This empty, hopeless night.

Last week, I visited your place and read,
On slowly sloping, algae-covered stone,
“I am the Resurrection and the Life,
He that believes in me, though he were dead,
Yet shall he live.” This is our hope alone,
That He, upon the cross, endured the strife
To win the cruel conflict over death,
And break the bands of our mortality.
We sorrow not as those whose hope is vain.
Thus life goes on as God allows us breath;
Renewed, we trust, in safe simplicity,
The old refrain, “Until we meet again!”

G. Jones     July 2004