Hancock's Woods Poem by Ian Keenan

I was eight and running,
Monsters yelling from
Bushes,
Slipping on wet leaves,
Even my sister scared.

Out of Hancock's,
Past the stream and on
The field-side track
Leading to the arches
And home.

We stopped, a blackberry bush
Too tempting,
Wondering where our brother
Roger was,
Not worried.

And as we turned the style
He came,
Laughing, calling names,
The chatter of a
Haunted House.


I can still hear him,
Late at night,
Outside my bedroom window,
Wondering if he'd really changed
In sixty years.