Jaye Marie and Anita Dawes

The morning after the party
I found my father’s old tape
In an old cassette player
Alongside a box of tapes
It contained his black wall stories
Press play, his first story, entitled ‘The Child’
Through narrow dark streets
The child ran, her bare feet caked in mud
Something had taken her the wrong way
Her bare feet could hardly hold the ground
Eight-year-old girl, running for her life
Dark shadows behind her
In her tiny hand she held her mother’s key
She is tiring, whispering a prayer
For help, for hope
 She calls for her long dead mother
Where had the small blue light lead her?
Is it safety that awaits her?
To be continued…
I was hooked,
it felt good to hear my father’s voice…

© anita dawes 2020