|
By Ivor Griffiths
|
A girl of grotesque appearance
is beautiful to the cleric,
who remembers a time, before fire and light,
when the dark was charcoal black.
In her fantasies, a ghost, an impression,
of a boy
calledAngel,
with rock wool eyes,
who scanned the Internet
for clothes to hide
with many desires and feelings,
wrapped up, in a woollen bag, with needles and scissors inside.
He stumbles towards a broken half light
of glass glinting from a cobbled lane,
half hidden in moon and neon, masking
this strange malevolent place.
Then silently, walking on tiptoe,
through guilt the feelings brought,
pain like twisted glass and stone
panicking hands begin to shake.
Fifteen and looking after her dad, hair behind a sash,
thinks about the Angel: understanding, touching and loving.
Bringing her something to wear each week,
here, in the Community Centre.
,br>,br>Ivor Griffiths 2006
|
