Haven

There was a place beside the apple tree
between its trunk and lowslung limbs
Where as a child I used to go
to flee the witches with their flying brooms
in my child's imagination.
It was shady, soft and cool there
with the sweet seductive smell
of earth and leaves and ripening fruit
and I would spend an hour or two
playing with my favourite doll
pretending I was in a magic land
till it was time to go inside.

There is a space beside the garage door
between the bins and broken fence
where now I'm grown I sometimes go
to flee the ogre with his flying fists,
his abuse and denegration.
It's dank and dark and cold there
with the sickly putrid stench
of alcohol and rotting food
and I sometimes spend an hour or two
praying with my head in my hands
pretending that it will all be OK
till it is safe to go inside.