The soft breeze soughs softly through the tall cypress trees.
I stare at the tomb of my son, so long now dead.
How he loved to sail on gentle summer smooth seas,
How oft I wished I perished and died in his stead.
Late summer brought so much change of ugly weather.
His small boat capsized, and he drowned, lost forever.
I stare at the cold slab, my head in prayer I bow.
I weep at the tomb of my son, gone so long now.
4 April 2019
Writing Challenge 1- April, 2019 - Its All About 8 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2019