GAUNT MEMORIES

Gaunt the corridors of my mind,
their darkened passages dim lit by torches,
tongs of youth from fiery embers brandished
in my brain, to waken thoughts
that frightened with their pain.

Such memories of walking in the night,
hurriedly along the hedges, over streets,
when rain came lashing down
and thunder clapped the sky,
as if some danger stood close by.

Awaiting my return to the abandoned park,
where some were murdered only just last year,
the fear would grasp me in its chains,
that clank the locks of common sense right shut,
like handcuffs mesmerised I stood, or ran.

My hair all wild, my satchel swinging frantically,
my eyes alert for every stirring sound,
especially the ones that came out from behind,
or over the stone walls
that circle round the football ground.

The trees, their messages would toss,
across the space so full of eerie clouds,
all nature turned into a late black drama, and mother said:
"no, never take a cigarette from any stranger."
But here was nobody to see,
as hurrying home through places sombre,
all to be seen was little me.