by Nick Gisburne
He tiptoes to the bedroom, late at night
To kiss his precious daughter, in her bed
He cracks the door to liberate the light
Revealing something sinister instead
He does not see the miracle he knows
He does not see his little girl at all
More light, more sight, serves only to expose
A sleeping child his eyes do not recall
The mother, at his shoulder, with concern
Imagines what her husband says he sees
Another year, and she has come to learn
No sleep, no time, will put his mind at ease
The room is as it was the day she died
And still he hopes to find her face inside
