Write a comment
A hidden September moon casts no shadow, late,
On this cold, damp evening, as clouds in collusion
Offer coverage for fear or fright.
Then from nowhere, the ringing telephone startles,
“Any action there tonight”?
The plummy posh voice speaks, smooth and elated.
‘I’m sorry’, says Clifford “this Home has now been closed d…. “
His unfinished line hangs, as the call is hastily terminated.
Alarmed by what he’d heard, Clifford sits down, tremulously
Wondering about what he had heard or just hadn’t caught.
His temporary role of caretaker, closing rooms, shutting doors,
Dealing with gossip and rumours, was not what social work taught.
Dust covers cannot conceal the secret suffering of the past,
The timeless grey of walls and carpets, hide bitter tears,
Of some screaming silence, where cries and complaints
Went unheard, by the deaf ears of managers, for many years.
Those unable lambs cared for by desperate wolves,
With no choice or option offered for their welfare or health.
Clifford gazes absently, at the window and the fly encircled,
As a sinister spider creeps, with sly and calculating stealth.
“See that the Temple remains, of hurt and particular wrath” ,
Recalling memory, Clifford muses on that experienced rhyme.
Of men who lustily preyed daily on vulnerable boys,
But prayed to some God, on Sunday, to excuse their crime.
In this gathering dusk, the golden rule comes to Clifford,
‘Treat others as one would want to be treated by them’.
But troubled young boys arrived in this ‘safe’ shelter,
Without hope, in a desperate despair that would overwhelm.
“What am I closing down, what’s been disappeared” he thinks,
“In time, this monument to abuse will fall, as tourists pass by”.
Buildings, bricks and stones may be silently demolished
But in the passages of time, recollections may never die.
The howling ghosts of yesterday, make cries of hurt and pain,
That are now buried deep, unheard, within a building, that’s gone.
The bitter memory, of distressing demons can still remain,
When buildings die, miserable memories can still live on.
Today, Clifford picked up the daily paper,
On seeing the headline, he sat down, reading slow.
Will this ever stop, or go away and thought,
About that damp September night, all those years ago.
