The Unfinished Story (Poetry)

I have long since left my children unattended
abandoned them somewhere in the secret dark
those never-to-be-famous-five roam — lost

in a subterranean world of paper ghosts —
my imagination’s gift an empty box
of echoes kept — faint voices from the past.

I wrote them into being, thoughtless and unplanned
how I would nourish and sustain their lives
they wait there still — in stasis — will not die.

Cold preserves them. I cannot claim that love
informs their story, wraps invented names
with motherly concern. I have deserted them

quite callously, my interest drawn elsewhere
and no retrieval scheduled — pencilled in
to pick up threads and lead them safely through

Blytonesque adventures. Guilt’s a dusty shroud
to cover what’s unfinished — started blind
with no idea how such a tale might end.

(ii)

This shrugging-off of all responsibility
for things left uncompleted catches up
with me — I feel a pressing need to check

on offspring — are they loose and running wild
undisciplined — each pale fictitious child
turned rebel in my absence — run amok?

So I retrace my steps now curious to learn
how I left things — is what detail I recall
a true reflection of the tale thus far?

Braced for shock, I thought the kids the same
or so I judged at first. But reading further on
a change seeped through like damp edging the air

with a faint knowledge time had closed its gate
and we had grown too far apart — blood and ink
too dry. I knew it in my heart of hearts.

(iii)

I’ve filed them. Neatly-archived. Lever arched away.
Unshredded, I must save them and admit
it’s very likely they won’t see the light of day.