A Place Rarely Visited

This is a memory of a 

place rarely visited.

A recently trusted wilderness,

where I wandered without worry,

when the light died

and the curtains closed.

Now,

with intervening years,

scar tissue has re-opened

and legionnaires march to war 

along a tow path, 

where boat horses once walked.

A lonely location,

Victorian canal side,

where fishing with nets

and futile death

is more likely,

than less.

This oily elixir, 

melts my unconscious, 

each and every night,

and as the terror starts,

I am a child of

three, four and five,

every birthday a memorial,

no celebration.

And as for my later years,

they lay face down

in dark water,

drifting to Bingley Five Rise Locks,

hoping that this time I drown.