No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as

Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when

The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.