In the garden, the sounds are small
that take me back to fond times;
the curling up and crying crawl,
belie the screaming sighs and crimes.

When in a moral shed of sticks,
with doctors there at play with silver
metals and poison pinpricks;
I see that time has trapped me under.

These relatives, a clique of pain;
the sins masquerading as the faithful.
When they come back to sell the shame
I watch the motors come and stall.

On top of hope and gazing downwards,
I hide in a million shards of blue;
flattened by the mud from the showers
after pre-dawn's grey clouds came too soon.