Poetry

Ab Origine

Like animals in the dark we listen for death, its footfall soundless in the hush, hardly breathing, we know it is there, that something inevitable has our name on it, and we are afraid to move, caught up in dissolution’s imagery. On nights like these I wander Maitland Road, its past and present which are mine, and diamond memories pinpoint my youth and light it up, like stars that glitter through the bleakest black. My mother lived in Mayfield and I used visit there. The house sailed high over Maitland Road, lit up by the car-yard’s lights and her hills…

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