Patrick   The day my son died his mother I held in the crook of my arm; his little body cold on pebbles between us.   We’d let him paddle on the one-inch shore until he caught the swan like it was a moving toy or our cat at home.   We’re split now, his mother and I never had more children, either one.   Sometimes I still climb into the attic, step over the circle of track, sit on my haunches, set the train off, watch it go station by station reaching no destination.   Noel King