Into the Walled Garden HTML version

3rd Hut
Behind doors locked fro m the outside,
foetal, hands clasped between his legs,
pupils wide, listening for laughter,
the night bark, counting hours
by the metronome o f thic k soled boots
and the whip of batons,
he wills dawn to break.
To see is to reme mbe r.
He sees a friend, a man
with whom he played football
on scrub land when they were young,
when the colour of a shirt
was all that separated them.
Butchers, bakers, plumbers, teachers…
They broke bread across tables
that now lay shattered by shells
falling fro m a distant hill.
Pots, pans and drying clothes
hung in those kitchens.
To hear is to re me mber.
He hears a handle turn on rust,
grinding dust on its spindle thread.
A door slams into a wa ll.
Scum littered jokes are laughed at,
flesh breaks on rough sawn planks.
Forgotten names leave gaps in the world.
Bea ms of sharp moonlight
break through shuttered windows.
Time passes with the rhythm
of blunt wooden sticks on swollen feet.
In the 3rd hut the names that still
fill the gaps wait for roll ca ll.
And We Danced
Vague, alien, animated shapes
moved with staccato stubbornness