About six months ago,
I snuck out of a party
I wasn't having fun,
nor my daughter.
So, we went to the park,
just across the street.
Round about midnight,
I helped her on the swing.
Her laughter echoed through
poorly lit orange streets
as her best dress billowed
and puffed in the breeze.
I remember thinking-
I hope that when she's grown,
she'll remember this night
when her silly Mummy stole
her away.
I remember hoping,
she might hold this memory dear.
Our midnight escape to her
favorite place, her first taste
of anarchic, jaunty fun.
Till a voice
cut through the moment,
stopped us in our tracks.
'This park is closed!!
Please leave
or police will be notified!'
There was no-one around,
'Who said that Mummy?'
My baby was confused,
so was I. Till I realised.
George Orwell, was no novelist.
It was not fiction that he wrote.
A visionary, a prophet.
He warned us-years ago.
YOU ARE READING
Intermission
PoetryPoetry written many years ago. I found my voice and lost it. As a step towards recovering my voice I decided to share these poems.
