Prisons

When children are taken away from their parents

down wet paths to waiting cars by raincoated intruders

I recognise the high emotional charge:

disbelief that that sequence of fast impressions –

draught of unwelcome cold,

cold hands and clipped dialogue –

was real; an immediate emptiness

(not physical, that will come)

and fear of the future.

And the captor?

Sense of a job well done?

More likely apprehension;

guilt of abusing a welcoming warmth;

awkward arms; soft, soft skin,

sense of violation.

Torque of doubt.

I’m cursed that I can see both sides

and ride the casual pendulum of cut and dried.

The human condition awaits us

in the dark at the top of the stairs,

unsteady and uncertain –

as organised as treacle.

The mind is an attic of boxes,

loose ends must be tied.

The child toddling down the path

approaches the safety we know best.

In a dream through kaleidoscopic eyes

I mount the stairs.

In a child’s playful dark I fumble for a match and light it.

Then I see the children,

offer them neither cradling arms nor white coat logic,

just look at the children cowering from the glare.

At that point my fingers burn;

at that point I douse the match in a jerk of pain.

In the dark I begin to think

as sleep slips away.

As I open my eyes to the light

the dream retreats to a box

at the back of my brain.