It’s not the visible roots,
those above ground
which can easily be chopped off,
that haunt me.
It’s the invisible threads,
the emotional cobweb
that catches and draw me nearer to
a cold Nordic land.
The screams
of barefoot anguish in the snow,
the smell of poverty where
the abuser and the abused are
joined together by a common
despair, trapped in a circle of needs!
And the child seeks escape in
dreams of endless summers
where a Santa Claus’s evil mask
and foul breath is banned.
Where no windows are broken
and no Yule tree is trampled into city slush!
But I do remember a summer lake
where I swam in lucidity
and that was not a dream.