Matilda Gratton | + Follow Poet |
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Isis Stole My Son

Isis stole my son.
My hand was clasped, tight, I swear
Our fingers entwined, as he tugged me, eagerly, around the fair

From the ducks, to the teacups, his smile was mine alone
We were two, hand in hand, tone within tone.

A plane, it juttered, just above his sweet head
The wind jostled his fair hair, drowned out the words we both said.

And I was distracted, briefly, by a fraction of a noise
Or a tug, or whimper, from a small gaggle of young boys

Until my own, he ran, our fingers unentwined 
My own, left lonely, unable to find

His small thumb, from my palm
Was disconnected, slightly lost

I ran, crazed with emptiness, from stall to stall
Checked the ducks, and the teacups, scowered the food hall

Till alast, he was found, by a gingerly old lady
Exhausted, equally frightened, he grasped my hand, then everything goes shady

Was it my fault, then, or now
Now he truly is gone, from our safe little town

Now he truly is lost, as he chased fickle promises
As he once chased butterflies, yet now, he chases prophecies 

I feel so exhausted, my tire is everlasting
My sweet little boy, caught in a dangerous casting

He loved the patterns, on the bumblebees back
So much, he cared little, of their painful attack

He would cry, yes, lots of tears would pour
So I would put him on the counter, swoop him up from the floor

And kiss his little finger, take the pain away
I was magical then, my promise was all he’d obey

And with a cuddle, he return to his tasks
Falling through the grassery, before that required a gas mask

Collecting crickets in his palm, where my fingers sometimes lay
On my mind, these sweet little nothings, ever so do weigh

But he grew, and things became hard,
His laugh became less, and less so, to be heard.

Their was a boy at school, a mean little soul
Who would kick him, and punch him, his games were so foul

But I always put a plaster, on the bruises so sore
And promised him better, for this I never foresaw


Things did not get better, but he learnt to fight, 
And punch, and kick, which was fine, until he started going out at night

And im sure, though not certain, I had once seen
A sparkling, white, silver, knife like gleam

But I was now frightened, on who shared my home
Less my son, now a stranger, I was completely alone.

He returned later, and later still, 
Until, one day, my son left, abruptly, to kill.

But I had no idea, if return, he would
Until a month later, when call, he felt he should

And he whispered, very quietly, his fate he was sold
And the reality he kept, so very untold

And I told no-one, so ashamed I had failed
My sweet little boy, could even become jailed.

He is married, something I did not witness
To a girl, frightened, the phrophet their eyewitness

Her only escape, is the day he might die
In a field, alone, I will never say goodbye

So my sweet little child, whos knees were so sore
Can return to an angel, as he was once before.

Copyright © Matilda Gratton | Year Posted 2019

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