Driving home from South Arm-
and I decide to see the night as it really is.
Bereft of colour or space,
the night is a sooty tunnel with no beyond.
The night is a railway tunnel
caked in the soot of a century.
This is what the night must have been when
I was a child. There is no world beyond.
The sides close in. I do not want to touch it-
it will come off black on my hand.
The trees are not alive.
The trees are sentries guarding the horror
of death.
It’s the colourlessness that strikes me most.
I do not like remembering how a child might see.
I drive past the place where two people were killed
only yesterday.
The road is strewn with sand.
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