A useless investigation

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The headlights keep appearing
(deep into night)
against the bedroom wall.

They repeat in a pattern
(stenciling net curtains)
distorted clarity rises then falls.

The light is not headlamp yellow
(the decoration has a hue)
a hint of pink blushes the room.

A moment of feint company awakens,
(as if all else is dead)
then loneliness returns with the gloom.

What room..what house..
is this a memory of
where lights flash in darkest night?

Two rooms of pink I can recall
(Gran’s house or student house?)
that could perhaps fit the bill.

A Devon terrace at the fore
(Fore street to be precise)
of childhood’s fun and thrill.

Twin beds for Gran and Grandad,
but I believe I never slept alone
in their room of mature rose.

A Welsh terrace on the silent road
(Ffordd Tegid it is true)
where student exile nursed my woes.

I was alone for many a month
(this could be the source)
but rarely shined this cul-de-sac.

I can’t place where I was
although I sense unease,
(no one watched my back).

I think of other bedrooms
and remember gentle snores,
but they lack the isolation.

Once more I sleep in a room
where headlights search the walls,
but here I’m warm and comforted,
so why dwell on this desolation any more?

Ffordd = Road, Tegid = silent/serene

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4 thoughts on “A useless investigation

  1. Not your average bedroom memoir. Time, places and stages of life are set out in clouded memories in this ruminative narrative piece. An enjoyable read – nice work.

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