Story

 

Small, I'd put my hand up to my head,

Look at the houses down the road,

See from where I stood,

That they were no more tall than me. 

Running to the gate,

I'd swing, its spring was not the thing

that kept me in, 

And time would bring

A marching band 

Along our street, orange they were,

And in my orange shorts, I

Snook out to join them

In the throng,

I marched along, surely this was where I belonged, 

Until the crossroads stopped me short. 

Going over felt so wrong

Turning sadly I saw my mother

Running, crying, tripping after

Choking out my name,

Her fear for me escaping

You might get lost,

You might get grabbed,

You might get hurt,

You stay with us.

Suddenly I realised that I was bound,

Within the love of family,

I didn't want to hurt my mummy,

Didn't want to leave the sanctuary,

Snared inside this net of safety,

Surrounded by the bounds

Of familiarity, I was

Locked within the garden

Of my memory.