Cot Death Poem by Mark Heathcote

Aloft to my angel, my angel child
that winged my heart flutters with joy.
I wish to bring ye young one home
and clothe thy bones with flesh and blood
but all I have is gone, my seed in the grave.
Ye have flowered and died in the spring;
our little-winged soul is ye lost. Lost like sheep
when I count my dying prayers and weep
don't bleat child, don't-bleat
in the holy meadow, sleep, sleep, sleep
until that time again we meet.