do not seek me in the cold ground

I wrote this poem a few years ago when I realised we might not often, if ever, be able to visit our son's grave. Sadly, it now seems appropriate for both our children.


do not seek me in the cold ground

My bones may be in cold ground but do not seek me there.
I am not in the grey clouds that fill the evening air;
the gurgle of a stream is just the water running free,
it does not hide my laughter; that is in your memory.
I am not in the forest amid the treetops high
nor in the gentle breezes, when they blow a sigh.
I am not in wide fields, or down upon the beach;
look, but you’ll not find me for I am out of reach.
My voice is not in birdsong, or in children’s play;
I am not in the sunset that ends a busy day.
You will not find me in the wind that blows, or on a stormy sea;
nowhere in the whole wide world is the being that was me.
But the place where you will find me, even though we are apart,
is not so very far because I live on in your heart

© Ida Jones

R.I.P.   
Timothy David Berkshire Jones - 27.07.1963 - 01.09.1985
Sheridan Louise Berkshire Musson (nee Jones) 07.02.1968 - 20.08.2016