of a Maroon Lada Estate,
wrapped in a king size quilt-
- my Brother and I stared out
the windows and sketched our breaths
on the cold damp glass.
We drew dragons fighting knights
with out of proportion swords,
scenes that would never resolve.
“Boys go to sleep” Mum said
as she tried to fight the weight
pushing down her own eyelids.
We waited parked up on the kerb
as Dad said goodnight to his friend
huddled in a squat concrete tower,
and as a family we set off,
stealing prohibited moments
along abandoned Armagh roads.
I tried to listen in as my parents
shared the contents of their day
in hushed conversation.
Bomb scare on Woodhouse street . ..
a break in at Castle Hardware, Fletcher rang in sick again...
Nothing out of the ordinary.
The town zips past in quickly turned page,
as the Moon and stars seem to remain
slow to change and motion.
Then the trees come reaching out in
truncated tragedy, held by their stoic
boughs and relentless roots.
I look at my brother who is already over,
mouth gaping open for dreams to take
full command with their gossamer grip.
I don’t remember being carried
back into the house, only waking
amongst Paddington bear wallpaper.
Glen Wilson lives in Portadown, Co Armagh with his wife Rhonda and children Sian and Cain. He has been widely published having work in The Honest Ulsterman, Foliate Oak, Iota, Southword and The Incubator Journal amongst others. In 2014 he won the Poetry Space competition and was shortlisted for the Wasafiri New Writing Prize. He was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing 2016. He is currently working on his first collection of poetry.