David Mitchell

poem for my unborn son

My name is Yorick
and the worm
is in me
Jesting was my fancy
clowning my business
but I am sick now
the play is done

You will grow
saddest
most infinite minstrel of all
reading
playing quietly alone
hiding in the library
by sunless statues
or in the hall

Being slight and grave
your fine hands will lie
obedient at table
your great eyes black
over straight lips
washed with no smiling

Better
than chanting a mime
through your carousel years
flushed and stiff
like a red marionette
or your father at court

steal away boy

 
©David Mitchell
 

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Last updated 24 March, 2005