Can you remember? Nor me. The children’s home did not nestle by some Huck-Finn river, Log-cabinned and camp-fired. It backed onto the Ship Canal, Gobbed with pink-sudded factory foam, The air sweating the stench of the chemicals plant, The streets rank with the reek of boiled cabbage. I was not knee-scabbed But body-bruised and welted By my father’s brutal belt, My childhood a cage, My adventure to run away, To escape from it and adult rage. I was no prince of the apple towns, My fruit was all tart, And time held me crying in the prison of his screams. But now, now I am singing, now I am singing. How I am singing!
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