Old clothes

Old clothes
Evoke memories

Of

Grandmother and curly grey hair,
Aunts and antiseptic,
Christmas and cakes,
Cousins and cricket,

Birthdays and red balloons,
Masquerades and dead friends,
Cupboards and hide-and-seek,
Marbles and touch-me-nots,
Scraped knees and seashores,

Sunlight and school,
Colour pencils and crayons,
Dictation and wooden desks,
Bells and books,

Forests and campfires,
Pine and streams,
Butterflies and wet soil,
Snakes and pumpkins,

Winter and wool,
Rain and rhubarbs,
Coughs and colds,
Doctors and drugs...

Old clothes.
New memories.

Not ready

Guilt stabs my
Conscience deep,
Its unfelt dagger
Rending bloodless wounds,
Plunging, twisting,
Accusing, as it descends.
But I'm not ready
To repent
Just yet.

The battlefield awaits,
My armies stand beside -
Sharpened swords
In weighty sheaths,
Bodies eager for combat.
But I'm not ready
For war
Just yet.

Memories fade,
Of unwanton words,
And anger, and betrayal.
Yesterday's pain reposes
In a corner of my soul,
Lifeless.
But I'm not ready
For peace
Just yet.

The night sings softly
Its daily lullaby,
Of dreams,
And hope, and tomorrow.
The bed is made,
Inviting rest.
But I'm not ready
For sleep
Just yet.

Madness

He leaped over the low wall and onto the wet grass stealthily, landing with the agility of a jungle cat. Without getting up, he looked around. He grinned at the uninterrupted snoring emanating from the guards' cabin. 'Suckers,' he whispered.

Slinging the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, he strode across the sweeping lawn, unchallenged, towards the main building. The night was cold, biting into the skin under his sweater, his urgent breath condensing in front of him. He removed his leather gloves, blew into his numb palms, and then rubbed them together vigorously -- there was no point in catching a chill. He put his gloves back on and started to whistle softly. Tonight was going to be good, he felt it in his bones.

The building was ahead, intimidating in its majesty, ivy draped across its grey, towering pillars, giving an impression of a domineering matron scowling at errant boys. More so in the darkness of night. He marched up the steps at the entrance insolently, in his rubber shoes, secure in the knowledge that there was nobody between him and the goodies. He had done this before, and every time he was amazed at the folly of the authorities and the slackness of the security around the place.

He bounded up the broad flight of stairs, three steps at a time, eager in his pursuit -- he didn't have time to waste. He was heading for the first floor, more specifically, a small window that he had left open earlier in the day, when he had done his 'preparation'. He found it open, and muttered a silent thanks. Sliding the glass shutter up, he eased himself into the hallway, and pulled the window shut.

It was dark and quiet, just the way he liked. He felt some of the tension leaving him, now that he was inside. Taking his torch out of the satchel, he flicked it on, scattering the darkness. He was amazed at the quality -- and the quantity -- of the stuff that lay before him, stacked in shelves that ran for -- what seemed to him -- miles. Nobody could assess the value of all of this, he thought. But he was only interested in the one thing that had made him risk this operation, and it lay in its place further down the hall.

He broke into an easy run -- the soles of his shoes making only the slightest of noises -- scanning the shelves as he ran. He turned into the rack where he knew his treasure lay, and caught his breath. He slowed to a walk, looking eagerly. And there it was, gleaming in the light from his torch. He stopped and laughed contentedly.

Taking it out of its resting place, he felt its weight as it lay in his gloved hands. Flipping the torch beam to 'high', he sat down on the floor, and commenced his work. He never quite understood why they didn't let him borrow more books from the library.