When I was a child
They took us to Mill Hill
Where we ran on the graves,
Shivering at the stones,
And at thoughts of the horror
In the bones that lay beneath.
A tap stood alone beside a path
Where we filled up watering cans,
Then pushed in flowers,
Always chrysanthemums,
Through rusted holes in the
Silvered containers.
.
I couldn’t see my nan in there
Below the faded lettering of the grave.
I couldn’t imagine it,
For me she was in Australia
The place of the disappeared -
The underneath place
The upside down place
Where blood rushes to your head
And brings you back to life.
And that’s why I can’t go to Australia,
The land of death,
Just in case I can’t find her,
Or the others that for fifty years have followed her there,
One by one.
I might have to leave behind that idea,
And think the impossible,
That they might just be
In Mill Hill after all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A simple yet atmospheric poem. I have been to this place and it certainly is 'shivery'