Poem by Stefan Ebmeier, Age 14.
Transformation
Not the biggest in his
Year. But a swagger in his
stride. A cocky glint in
his eye As he patrols his
territory. Fag in hand
Tight blue jeans, a curved
Brim to his cap. Clenched
Fists: hands that sent
Robbie McHoan to hospital
Last month. Twice his
Height too.
Approaching his home under
Sodium lamps. Returning
From the corner of town
Where he spends his nights.
Once inside, in the dim
Light. His appearance
Softens. It seems. His
Features less sharp, the
Angles less acute.
Looks in on his brother
Fast asleep. His father
Slouches in front of the
TV: no acknowledgement. no
Greeting. He enters his
Room, lies down on the bed.
Thinks of his home, thinks
Of his Mum, and cries Stefan Ebmeier, Age 14. James Gillespies |