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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem