The kitchen at the back of the house
Held us all together in the big bed
Under the kitchen stairs. Hitler's war was
Already 3 years old, under th stairs was our air-raid shelter,
Little light broke the small window that presented
A daily show of white and purple heather snd nodding bluebells
Like devout pilgrims in prayer. Illness cooped me up here
Like a wounde bird, paralyzed from head to foot
Huntyed day and night by speechless pain that terrorized
My blood and bone, white-washed me clean clean out
Of strength and breath, 'only a matter of time,' the doctor's said.
And so. for 3 years I stayed inside my head, cried for sleep
That never came, and mornings that I would'nt wake.
Twelve seasons came and went and in that time
And in that time inside my head I travelled the length and
Breadth of the galaxy, whatever thought ,I was. I heard
The creator's sustaining force a vibration I can not yet explain.
The nights I watched by dying light a tear-stained
Kneeling mother her long black hair cascading to her waist
L;ike a bright waterfall, her prayers '-O Lord make my little boy whole
And if that be and he should live let him gorify thee."
Well here writes a man in the image of age, and when I left
That sick bed over 68 years ago, its from those wounded breaths
And open scars I bring pain's official language, those anguished years
The bitter tears there bloomed poems in various shades of magic,
And a mother's prayer to her God who cared was heard, I'm sure...
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