child poetry

my son is dead and i am going blind
when you come tonight
in september
a flying word from here and there
let me move slowly through the street
he speaks not well
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
in mournful numbers
over the river they beckon to me
once this soft turf
who is the runner in the skies
i cannot always feel his greatness
gone before us
out of the window a sea of green trees