Sorbet On Ice

I woke in a cringe to a mangy little wail,
'Twas one of those guys trying a futile Sunday morning sale,
I peeped out of my window with bleary eyes
To find a little lad selling sorbet on ice.

Shorn of the smile that a child should wear,
He was frail as a leaf, ready to tear,
As he caught my eye, he pleaded in earnest
To buy his sorbet, so he could be blessed.

I curbed my wrath and shooed him away,
How I hate being bugged on so early a Sunday!
I walked to the park just round the neighbourhood,
Thought the morning's fresh gale would do me some good.

A trepid mind then began counting its woes,
Of finances and farces, of friends and foes,
And just then a sorry sight caught my gaze,
When a wiry old lady tripped and fell flat on her face.

I rushed to her and helped her to her feet,
Blood streamed through her nose, she looked forlorn and beat,
Her confounded look bespoke the saga of her life,
One of separation, sorrow, soliloquy and strife.

I asked her if I could be of some help to her,
She said, ‘Oh yes, you very much can, kind Sir,
I’m looking for my son who has deserted me since long,
Without telling me what I did so wrong.’
Of her limitless love with passion she spoke,
‘I need to see him,’ she said with a choke,
‘I’m bereft of love, and I have little time
To gain his love, and forgiveness for my crime.’

I slinked away, in shame and regret,
For being thankless for what each day I get,
For little trifles that seemingly affect my plight,
I forget that I at least have my loved ones in sight.

As I wound round the street, I saw the same little lad,
Cowering under a tree, hungry and sad.
I ambled upto him and asked for a sorbet on ice,
And my day was made, when I saw the glee in his eyes.