The doctor’s say it is his heart’s murmur
that keeps him small
like a doll
he carries with him throughout the day.
But I know, that like a great fish
in a small tank,
though his dorsal fin will curl,
he will outgrow it,
this limiting, childhood of his;
And, being grown, discard his little pond;
And surface up, somewhere, in the Atlantic…
Having escaped the crossfire
between his parents:
Two warring Continents that ravaged his world
before his eyes!
I know he fears the open spaces
between us,
like a Battlefield, a “No Mans’ Land”.
And the occasional but tenuous cease fires
I know, no, I believe in his tale
because, wounded, his hearts’ murmur,
Whispers it, as so…
John Tansey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-runt-of-the-litter-to-my-son-dylan/
