A backward glance resurrects bird-lit dawns
which in gilding my childhood
ring to me still.
I well remember those long buried voices
singing again
lullabies to my cradled young fears
as fright became real
when white moon patterned
ghostly faces to a young child's open eyes.
Midnight monsters with horns even now
whisper around
my bedroom's old walls but with each
dry-throated back-look
taken I hear the kind voices calling in love
to ease my crying.
Kindness never will fade or alter
for buried voices once heard as retrievable
enter close-woven portions
of memory-halls and are never lost,
ignored or forgotten by
a small mind who, now grown, recalls the
placated smiles and knows
loved voices will dry tears as before.
