by Nigel Rickman
Bay-windowed houses line the street
Gardens tended, hedges neat.
From one of those bays a Boy does stare
At his World so safe,without a care.
At the end of the street a black cloud does drift From kilns,belching smoke,when the men are on shift.
He gazes in awe at this darkening cloud, Over gardens ,of whose tenders are justly proud.
Later that day,the Boy plays alone,
His mates are not out,he is on his own.
He sits on the kerb with imaginary friend, His World so secure was about to end.
A masculine voice,with promise of fun,
Startles the boy,alone in the sun.
He gives him some sweets,he seems a nice man, Like a lamb to the slaughter,gets into his van.
To a derelict shed,he takes this boy,
He tells him to strip,this boy,so coy.
With a knife at his neck,and the promise of death, He’d have to comply or he’d breathe his last breath.
Crying and shaking,He starts to undress, He knows not how to get out of this mess.
Naked and wretched,he stands there,sobbing, His very soul this man is robbing.
This man stands before him,naked,disgusting.
All hairy and big and primed for assaulting.
The boy endures torment so dreadful,that day, The day his childhood was taken away.
A boy stares,wistfully,at his world so changed, The neat little street,now somewhat deranged.
He is damaged forever,this boy once so free, I know that for sure, for that little boy was me.