Oaklands

Oaklands

by Robin Knight

It’s spring, night-time.
I’m 9 years old, in my parents’ garden,
between the oaks.
Their heavy canopies
are invisible above me
in the darkness:
I look up anyway.

God already knows why I’m here,
knows what I’m going to ask.
I say it out loud.
This emptiness, this longing,
there must be more than this.
God’s not answering. I ask again,
I call on God to pay me attention.

Silence. God’s not coming.

The darkness slashes
up and down my back.
My bowels thrill.

I call on the Devil. The Devil
knows what I’m going to ask.
I say it out loud.
There must be more than this.
This emptiness, this longing.
The Devil’s not answering. I ask again,
I call on The Devil to pay me attention.

Silence. The Devil’s not coming.

It’s winter, mid-day.
I’m 53, in my mother’s garden
between the oaks.
I look up at their lopped
canopies in the wan sky.

I remember invoking God, invoking the Devil,
I consider that when I was waiting for them,
they were waiting too.

We all need to be heard.

Robin Knight (He, Him) is a mixed-race writer in Sussex. His poetry has been selected by Rattle, The North, SOUTH, Filling Station, The American Journal of Poetry, Griffel, The Dewdrop, The Whirlwind, Visual Verse, The Bangalore Review, and others. He has written for Psychologies Magazine and True West and co-authored a book of Children’s Folk Tales for The History Press. His novel Coyote, set in Northern Mexico in the early 19th Century, is seeking publication.