'A Magic Carpet' by Trish |
No doubt you still attend your beloved church, and wear your special Sunday hats? I particularly recall the pale blue hat with petals of pink, scattered across its brim.
Is it long since I last saw you? Perhaps, those flowers, are now crumpled and crushed?
I recall, how, as a child, I so loved the soft glow of your ivory skin, and the luminous silver hue, that glinted in your long dark hair.Would a child really notice such things? Or is it my feverish imagination playing with my mind? I don't know. But even so, to me, they are sweet memories, innocent, childhood memories.
And now?
Mother... pray for me... it is so cold here in this place.
I shiver at the sinister sounds of the dark night. Yet, even the silence, seems to hold within its stillness, a promise to bestow its own form of vengeance.
No, it is the hard hearts of those who step over me,
walk blindly past me, hurry on. On, to who? and to where? I ask myself.
Sometimes I'm tempted to follow, but it would be too terrible to discover,
they hurry on to no one and to nowhere. Last night in the moonlit lane, someone bashed old Joe, why would they do that?
Mother...I fear it was I. Yes, I struck the first blow, on the poor souls frail body, and all the blows that followed, last night in the moonlit lane. And then?
Mother ...pray for me.
Mother ...pray for me.
(Part of a letter, from my play, 'The Half Way House' 1995)
Tushie
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