My Son’s Balloon.

In Holborn Station London
We waited for the underground to come...a mother and her son...

A small young boy of four...clutching to the string of your balloon
Your new balloon, a bobbing lovely thing...dancing on the fetid air in innocence.

As the train roared in ...it danced a little more...until the fierceness of the wind
Whipped it from your grasp in one swift lash...
We saw
Your balloon sucked down , sucked deep onto the rails
And disappear beneath the rushing wheels upon the track...

A stricken look of horror crossed your face...subdued tears were melting in your eyes.
Your balloon had died a villain’s death, and....
The unexpected violence of the act
Upset you so that it upset me too.

Without a thought... I said... Don’t worry. The Balloon is fine....
The Station Master’ll find it , and take it home for his wee boy...
He is a kind man, he will give it a good home...
The balloon will be fine...

Why did I lie...? It is wrong to lie.
But I could not bare your pain.
You were so young...and pain seemed so wrong.

And so we sat inside the train..we journeyed on...knowing the kind man
Would give the balloon a home....

And you were comforted and so was I.
But, the balloon was gone.

Kristine Byrne...London feb 2011