In memory of Thomas

23 Jan 2021 | Poetry

We may never know
what shocking fate
crushed tiny Thomas
after so short a time;
what made life seem
so fragile and so precious.
We may never know.

We will never know
how tiny Thomas would have
bonded with Jack his twin,
how they would have played,
cried and laughed.
Just like his father Tom
and his soul mate James.
The coming together of two
generations of identical beings,
explaining the past
and shaping the future.
We will never know.

We will never know
what might have been.
When – not if – Thomas would
have plucked his first guitar.
Whether he would have an angel’s
voice, like his mother Sophie.
Whether he would have picked
sentences from Latin prose,
or traded a cricket bat
for an arts’ degree.
We will never know.

We will never know
what might have been.
But let our imaginations
play havoc with our despair.
Just picture Thomas at 22,
enjoying a special celebration.
He is tall and handsome,
like his father Tom.
He has just graduated or
played his first main gig.
He is surrounded by friends
and he is laughing and joking,
enjoying the moment, his
friends hanging on every word.
You can see his parents
and grandparents
pumped with pride, greedily
grabbing this special moment.
And this is one of many memories.
We will never know.

We will never know
what cruel meaning there is
to grief, but we think of Lear.
‘As flies to wanton boys are
we to the gods.  They kill us
For their sport’.
And we try to make sense of this
topsy-turvy nonsense world.
We will never know.

We will never know
why, but we do know this.
Thomas lived for 48 minutes
and died in his father’s arms.
For 48 precious minutes
Thomas was enmeshed in love.
We, his parents and family,
will always treasure him.
We will never know
the answers to our questions.
But Jack lives on and so
does our love for tiny Thomas.

Written 2016