Nights on Limeylands

first, the time i slept

just beyond my nana's

hearth, smelling

the charred logs, and feeling the

heat's sting upon

my cheek.

i curled myself up into

a woolen ball

on her sheep skin rug,

and committed myself

to the night.

next, the time

there was no room

for my older sister -

nor I.

so, we were sent

to the motorhome

in the lane

the giggles into the

night

ceasing only when

the drunken men

stumbled home 'cross

our path

our humble

sleeping place

and briefly muted our

selfish laughter

last, my cousin's wedding

and the first time wine passed

my lips

again, and again, and again

outside of my mother's eyes

and when I awoke with

a desert in

my mouth

she laughed, and

was shocked my punishment

wasn't more severe

each night is a memory

that feels more like

a dream each year i live

and this strikes and

strains me with

an unyielding grief.

Copyright © Catherine Young, 2010.