KILLOUGH

We sat on the rocks, the long play over,

polished rocks warmed with salted sunlight.

This long rock had been a slide, a house

a school,

unmindful as we were of the prosaic.

Scabbed knees skinned ankles broken sandal

buckles,

and all over the fresh smell of summer.

The acceptable of life – magic and bruises together.

The unacceptable – that other rock – jagged

round the sucking hole

that sucked you under like magnet.

Truth they said, and you are left to nightmare.

Unchanged;

Even in reasoned maturity

I am still afraid.