There are no daisy chains for you and me,
no crown of flowers upon your head.
There are no races to the top
between your brothers and sisters.
No placing of painted stones
upon the cairn.
There are no stories we will tell together,
of how the lizard tongue fern got its name.
No happy ever after for you and me.
There is no holding of your hand,
or carrying you down,
swaying asleep upon my shoulders,
as smiles skip between your mummy and me.
We walk out of the way.
Lying down on deserted hills,
breathing in and breathing out our grief.
Closer to our lost children in these hills.