Selection of Poems...

By Scott Redmond

Rabat

We got into Rabat at around midnight,

walked blind an hour and a half into town,

tried to find somewhere to sleep.

down an alley, a neon sign blinked ‘hotel’,

like the coming of a Hollywood angel,

and as we began our pilgrimage two men

at the top of the alley followed us down.

We looked at each other, knew how it looked,

and prayed for sleep and salvation,

to the left of a dead end, a door led to us to a reception,

Not everything ends the way you think it should.

Old Town Caterpillars

Dad: (in an Irish accent) “I remember as a lad, seeing caterpillars in the house.

Funny thing a caterpillar, furrier than you might expect,

wandering around there like they’ve not a care in the world.

Of course, I didn’t mind them, found them cute almost,

but the dogs would have a hell of a time with them

if you let them close enough.

Just a kid though wasn’t I,

I loved the caterpillars I did.

My old da, your granddad, would let me name them,

first one I called Tiger, cos of the stripes, you know,

second was Snowdrop, I’ll always remember how she used to curl up.

Sometimes she’d climb right up onto you as you were trying to read,

or trying to eat, and you’d just let her after a while.

The household caterpillars, we’d leave them bowls of milk,

milk and little treats, and of course they’d go out and explore,

couldn’t just keep a caterpillar in the house,

and they’d hunt smaller animals, whatever was local.

My old mum, your gran, she hated the beasts,

couldn’t be in the same room as them,

but she’d still get their food when she went into town,

and when Tiger went missing she was one of the first out there looking.

Said it was for us kid’s sake, but I think she had a soft spot.

Funny little creature, could lose an afternoon petting their fur,

nothing smoother than the fur of a caterpillar,

and you never sleep better than with one of them lads sat on your chest.

I miss them, you know, but can’t have a caterpillar in a little city apartment,

not one like this.”

Cillian: “Dad,

you’re mistaking caterpillars for cats.

Again.”

Dad: “Right you are lad,

right you are.

I will say this though,

a lot of legs on a cat back then.”

Back Path

It connects Borthaugh Road

to Crumaugh Road,

my mum’s flat,

to my dad’s.

It’s maybe just under a football

pitch in length,

curved with a slight incline,

grass one side, a light

wooded area hiding my

grandparent’s home on the

other.

I genuinely must have walked it

thousands of times,

and will walk it hundreds more.

It is the most ordinary, dull place

in the world.

It terrified me.

I would walk it late at

night, street lights flickering

as regularly as they

were placed, which wasn’t massively

Regular, but enough to be creepy.

At seven, or eight, or ten, or twelve,

I had this gut wrenching fear

that, on this nothing path, I’d

walk through a wormhole

and emerge twenty years later.

Sometimes someone would see me,

and react in shock;

‘It’s you, you’re that

boy who went missing.’

Sometimes no-one would’ve noticed.

I’d reappear, and my parents

would’ve moved, and moved on,

and I’d be left behind.

I’d stand halfway up,

looking down at my dad’s, seeing

the lime green front door that

the council offered then asked

him to change. For being too green.

Or I’d crane my neck, hoping

to see my mum at the window,

washing dishes.

For someone who never ate,

she was always washing dishes.

I’d just stand, too terrified

to take that next step,

clenching my fists, and trying

to remember how things were.

Then someone would come by

with a dog, though never

the same person (or the same

dog), and I’d walk with

them, thinking if the wormhole

did open, at least we’d be in

it

Together.

I don’t remember what I had for breakfast today,

funny how fear sticks with you.

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ST. ART does not own the rights to any images used in this article.