I park the car

and climb the

stubborn slopes 

to my childhood.

Up Cockett Hill

to the Red Asylum.

Water tower and chimney

their shoulders tight, 

stand stark upon that hill.

A land marked Swansea bay.

Now a conglomeration

of housing,

cul-de-sacs 

to a builder’s greed.

And our house

a creation

of asylum same 

victorian red brick.

Rotted no value left

save for the slugs

and other denizens 

of damp places.

A wet ruin is left

turned to a wisp,

as insubstantial as

early memories.

Through the letterbox

sits a sad hall, mould 

wet and pleading.

Listen for my mother’s voice

but its not there,

not even an echo.

A little life, unravelled.

Old damp letters 

circle the mat.

Once I was a child here

with a cat that purred,

I thought it was 

a lion roaring.

And outside, those dark

woods that I remember,

now six pine trees, dying.

That mighty forest,

stolen away for ever.

©️ Dai Fry 29th May 2020.