For My Son, Callum.
Before I close the storybook tonight,
Let's paint a picture now of what we read.
All the colors that exist in sight,
Or all the ones that don't exist instead.
Possibility is limitless to you,
Of that I will make sure, don't ever doubt.
Pursuing whatever you may feel is true,
Whatever makes you laugh, or dance about.
So many things I want to paint for you,
We must invent the colors to begin.
The greens, the blues, the red, the yellow hue,
The unique and rosy paleness of your skin.
They don't know the magic that we know.
For I have taught since you first began,
Outside your eyes the choices always grow,
Hold the paintbrush steady in your hand!
A wealth of trees, of sky, of nature green,
Water rushing beyond some twisted scape.
Pages upon pages is the scene,
The storybook where you and I escape.
I'll be your co-artist, and help you trace the lines,
The boundaries through which your days will rush.
Until my own are gone, the times
When my withered hand can't hold the brush.
This story is forever, always you,
It's pages will brittle-crack, but remain there
Until the days when you yourself are old
Your eyes all smiles, your head so white of hair.
You'll pass it on with care to your own child,
Removing the splinters along your way,
And begin to paint again; and all the while,
Knowing that this moment cannot stay.
Together you will carry on our story,
Amazing tales, even after I am gone.
But go back a page, or two or three,
And you will see my character lives on.