Twas the month before Christmas Twas the month before Christmas and I dreaded the days, That I knew I was facing - the holiday craze. The stores were all filled with holiday lights, In hopes of drawing customers by day and by night. As others were making their holiday plans, My heart was breaking - I couldn't understand. I had lost my dear child a few years before, And I knew what my holiday had in store. When out of nowhere, there arose such a sound, I sprang to my feet and was looking around, Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash The sight that I saw took my breath away, And my tears turned to smiles in the light of the day. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a cluster of butterflies fluttering near. With beauty and grace they performed a dance, I knew in a moment this wasn't by chance. The hope that they gave me was a sign from above, That my child was still near me and that I was loved. The message they brought was my holiday gift, And I cried when I saw them in spite of myself. As I knelt closer to get a better view, One allowed me to pet it - as if it knew - That I needed the touch of its fragile wings, To help me get through the holiday scene. In the days that followed I carried the thought, Of the message the butterflies left in my heart - That no matter what happens or what days lie ahead, Our children are with us - they're not really dead. Yes, the message of the butterflies still rings in my ears, A message of hope - a message so dear. And I imagined they sang as they flew out of sight, " To all bereaved parents - We love you tonight!" By Faye McCord 19 isands newsletter

A Free Bird A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through singing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn- bright lawn and he names the sky his own. Give me your hand make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry. Let others have the privacy of touching words and love of loss of love. For me ... give me your hand. by Maya Angelou The Noble Nature It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night- It was the plant and flower of Light In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be. Ben Jonson Angel's Hill Sitting high on the hill I look over at this pretty setting. Taking in the cold fresh air in long deep breaths, a tear silently rolls down my face. I am in a special place, a sacred place. This place has a serenity that I have never known. I feel a sense of calm and peacefulness. As the wind blows the little hill comes alive with bright windmills all twirling in the breeze, windchimes tinkle in the trees and it seems almost surreal. I close my eyes...... if you listen hard enough you can hear them - giggling and laughing as they swoop down to earth and then back to the heavens. They are happy, free to go wherever but always coming back briefly to this place where their little bodies were laid to rest. They are just spirits, little souls that are forever connected to us. When the sun shines through the trees, across this bright place you can almost see them, dancing and playing together. They are angels and through the mist of my tears I think I can see my little angel. He is smiling and even though I long to hold him, to touch him, I know I cannot. He is with me always but it is here that I feel the closest to him. I sense that he is happy and nothing can harm him and knowing this eases my sadness. I sit and time almost seems to stop while I enjoy the sensation of him being so near. It is time to go though I don't want to leave him. The tears are again flowing and I wonder if the trickling waterfall at the bottom of this " Angels Hill" was created from the tears of all the mothers who had to say goodbye to their precious ones. I look forward to the next time that I visit my son Declan and his special place. As I walk down the path I can almost hear them all whispering goodbye. I turn for one last glimpse and as if to say farewell the windmills all start turning in their colourful brilliance. This is a magical place. Lisa Marshall Dedicated to my special Angel, Declan. 29/ 6/ 99 isands newsletter 20