A boy, a pigeon and a battle with death

Little boy called Thomas in a long-term children’s ward.
Suffering from illness and gruesomly deformed,
And though in pain he still found time for laughter, smiles and play,
His twisted face so radient each hour of every day.

He played in the ward’s garden like every other child,
But unlike the other kids he was gentle, never wild,
He brought sweet watery smiles to every nurse’s face,
As he ploughed on through life’s troubles at his slow and steady pace.

At eight years old he’d suffered much and still he had a smile,
And a laugh although he knew he’d be there but a little while,
He always said that one day he’d fly like a bird so high,
And soar above everyone in a perfect, cloudless sky.

He loved birds and when he spotted an ill pigeon in the street,
He begged that we look after it, his troubled face so sweet.
I knew he saw himself within the creature’s sickly state,
And I said it would be better soon, I told him ’Just you wait, ’

PRNS (please read next sequel)

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