When I was young my family moved from a town to a quiet village. Families in that village had lived there for generations. We were considered as outsiders and there was a lot of resentment towards us. Even now, 25 years later ,my parents are still newcomers, but I have long since left.
The strangers came to wind our roads,
in ragged rows of cars and vans.
We stoned them with our rocky stares
for waking us within our land.
We did not tell,
and no-one told.
We let them spread into our world.
Our lips were zipped about the last,
and all the horrors that occurred.
We did not speak and never will,
about the things we ‘had not’ heard.
We only watched
while they pitched in,
and the sun sunk to the mountains.
That night we slept as children sleep,
as our children, the whole night round;
and never spoke, and never stirred,
and never even heard a sound.
As morning raised
us and the sun
we looked to see the strangers gone.
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