Little gay bright gardens, handkerchiefs in size, and
very little, squares frayingly outlined by nodding
petals, kept in though, to that square, constrained
         by heavy borderings of stubble-fields, and
black soil.  

                 Bared so emptily by sunshine, resting
on them, showing them up for what
each meant to me, school holidays
are stopped

back to home and back to school, they'll all resume
unstoppably, they're waiting,
                  hothouse flashes of Mum's eyes, 
promising me justice, in
   
the unspeakable soap that is repeated nightly, ponderous
extremely boring sessions with my Dad and Mum. 
He says “You have told us lies”, she salivates

greedily because she's forced him to adjudicate
(ie pronounce, to favour her) against
       the daughter, see her as her mother has
inflated her, fat and tight and devilish

inside the closed-in house -
     she tells it in the village charmingly,
a cake with icing all for their consumption, they
believe in it

sharp like barbed wire inside my head
  the deadlock, hurting and 
changeable only by somebody's death.