There’s trouble at home, your parents are squabbling, Dinner’s not cooked and your whole world is wobbling. You retreat down the hallway and flop on your bed. You wish they’d un-say the things that they said. As you lie on your back and stare at the ceiling, Shadows close in like the things that you’re feeling, You hope that quite soon it will all settle down And the tick of the clock is such a comforting sound. ...
… to get there you simply float out your door; Take a sharp right, then go right once more. Go far from the centre, drift along by the river; Shrug off the strange chill that gnaws at your liver. Follow the rails past boarded-up stores, Avoiding the puddles where the ice never thaws. Pull your coat tightly, wind your scarf rightly; Flee those dark thoughts that come to you nightly. ...
When the dogs stop snarling and the rails peter out, When you’re no longer sure just where you’re about, You’ll see a last platform with an air quite bereft. Just sit there and wait for a train going left. And while you sit there, if you feel a bit flat, Think of hot cocoa and nice things like that. But just when you’re settled and start looking round, The platform erupts with a great mocking sound. ...
Deep in the gloom is a wise-looking creature - An old kookaburra with the look of a teacher. His eyes drill right through you, they fill you with fear. What on earth could he be doing up there! He beckons you close with a long, ragged feather, One nibbled by moths and years of damp weather. Your feet shuffle nearer, despite feelings of danger - What was it Mum said about talking to strangers? ...
But up close he’s not scary - more broken and sad. You’d almost feel pity if that smell was less bad. He asks you a question in a voice barely heard; A dry-as-dust rasp from a very old bird. And the question he asks you is so hard to answer; It pricks like a thorn in the shoe of a dancer. ‘What did you do,’ you hear the voice say, ...