A row of concrete ceiling slabs,is the view when I open my eyes
in my head, and it feels oddly normal.
Everything where it should be:
the shelf beneath the glassless window
with concrete pill-box slits
instead of bars, that I pretend
are Elizabethan mullions,
against which the sun casts shadows
and gives form to the idling time.
But there is no sound, as my mind
conjures images of home,
and fights off the daily hunger pang
arriving promptly as the long case
clock down in the hall strikes seven.
John H Davies
13th April 2011
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