Yours

 That child its birth in season we await
And with cripped thanks the yellow ribbon
From the drawer we take

For yueltide with its newly born
Brought echoes of the past
We remember our own son

To yield to the great yaw of grief
 That yearn remain so hidden
Self pity the colour of deceased belief

For all the days that yonder stretch
That yardage of footsteps on soft grass
For your yore, now missing all aspects

Of youth, a deprivation fortune stole
The winters gift that now is lost
A welcome home from that parole ?

To celebrate what he could be
Just a child as Jesus was
For yesterdays we tie that ribbon round the tree