This is an important poem to me. It is in memory of my son. WEBMAKER AND FRIENDS Spring. Deep sleep in the early hours jarred awake by the creak-shriek of wood clinging to fast-embedded nail. "Who's there?" through the window garage-ward Silence. Return to sleep. Morning. Every horizontal garage plank removed placed, transformed into a little house in the one solid corner. My small son, smile wavering uncertainly, says, "It was Wood - Den Man, Daddy" I scowl, feign anger and smile behind my hand. Summer. Lightly dozing in the warmth roused by a shatter-crash of broken glass splintered on resisting stone. "What's the matter?" towards my den "Nothing, Daddy" Continue doze. Later. In my den a pull-along truck piled higgledy-piggledy high with locks, catches, handles. My son, serious and very sincere says "It was Lobsterman, Daddy" I growl, feign anger and smile behind my hand Autumn. Catching up with admin. tasks disturbed by a shuffle-scuffle of trainer-shod feet across the bedroom floor long before bedtime. "What are you doing?" up the stairs. "I'm tired, Daddy". Return to work. Bed-time, and my son's room is a mass of wool woven to an intricate impenetrable web, access for one. My son, guilt chasing glee says "It was Web-Maker, Daddy" I grimace, feign anger and smile behind my hand. Winter. More unconscious than asleep Forced awake by the clamour of the telephone insistent and I know, I know, I know "Yes?" a barely audible whisper "Intensive Care. Come quickly" I run. In the ward, Wood-den Man, Lobsterman have followed Webmaker into his cocoon never to return. Anger is replaced by grief, unfeigned, and no smile now.

How very sad. There is no greater pain in the world than to loose one's child. I do not know what to say, except that this poem moved me. jon

 
~jon
My Blog - Mad Utopia Writing in a new era.

My son turns 3 in a couple of weeks. I can only imagine the pain. Thank you for sharing "Webmaker" with us.

Yes it was particularly tragic since Rhys took his own life. He died after 10 days in a coma the day after Boxing Day last and was only 29 years old. This poem is part of the mourning process, I suppose. You will understand that as that time of the year [Christmas!] approaches my mind turns that way. I hope to join the chat this weekend and am willing to talk further if anyone wishes.

Thank you also for the joy. The memories are very evocative. I am glad you told us more about your son's death. I was wondering.