CHILD'S PLAY IN THE SHADOW OF THE SUN
XVII
Life in a Cell
(Remembrance of childhood time spent
in Stanley Camp, Hong Kong, from 1942 to 1945.)
When I was young in World War Two
my mother and I were kept in a camp
and after a time
were assigned a cell
that was really a room with a door,
that could have been space for a horse,
that we shared with another mother and child,
that today is closed and empty,
that for us was nearly a home
for it pretended privacy
as the door could not be locked,
for it pretended liberty
as the camp was contained
by rolls of wire
barbed with bitter teeth,
that after all was just a cell
to keep us near and dry,
so the heart made it a home
in which we housed our dreams,
where we hung a shell made of mother-of-pearl;
where we walled our fears
in a leather belt
cut into five fingered strips
and hanging by the door,
signing a message to me
that the world outside was a dangerous place
and behaviour a path to pain or grace,
with my misdeeds my mother's disgrace
so pain was prevention
and pain was redemption
for grim was our keeper's face,
and hard was our keeper's hand,
and cold was our keeper's heart,
and harsh was my mother's love,
When the war was ended
we walked from our cell,
and we kept the broken shell,
glowing like a pearl,
and we left the five fingered belt
hanging to the wall,
but my mother's heart was broken,
and mine still hung on the wall
tight in the grip of the belt.
XVII
Life in a Cell
(Remembrance of childhood time spent
in Stanley Camp, Hong Kong, from 1942 to 1945.)
When I was young in World War Two
my mother and I were kept in a camp
and after a time
were assigned a cell
that was really a room with a door,
that could have been space for a horse,
that we shared with another mother and child,
that today is closed and empty,
that for us was nearly a home
for it pretended privacy
as the door could not be locked,
for it pretended liberty
as the camp was contained
by rolls of wire
barbed with bitter teeth,
that after all was just a cell
to keep us near and dry,
so the heart made it a home
in which we housed our dreams,
where we hung a shell made of mother-of-pearl;
where we walled our fears
in a leather belt
cut into five fingered strips
and hanging by the door,
signing a message to me
that the world outside was a dangerous place
and behaviour a path to pain or grace,
with my misdeeds my mother's disgrace
so pain was prevention
and pain was redemption
for grim was our keeper's face,
and hard was our keeper's hand,
and cold was our keeper's heart,
and harsh was my mother's love,
When the war was ended
we walked from our cell,
and we kept the broken shell,
glowing like a pearl,
and we left the five fingered belt
hanging to the wall,
but my mother's heart was broken,
and mine still hung on the wall
tight in the grip of the belt.