Hearing footsteps on the staircase
a young boy is silent in his room,
only moonlight from the window
brightens the darkness and gloom.
His heart beats fast, fear increases
as an angry father opens the door,
staggering drunkenly towards him
to inflict violent cruelty once more.

He packs a bag with some clothes
leaving home in the quiet of night,
stepping out into the cold darkness
hoping he won’t be missed till light.
It’s not so much the pain and bruises
more that he just can’t understand,
how one man can change so much
with a glass of alcohol in his hand.

After months of living on the streets
a stranger came and sat by his side,
knowing his name and who he was
he told him he no longer should hide.
Telling him he knew from someone
all that happened would now cease
his father had gone, never to return
so home was now a place of peace.

The rising sun glows in his room
and he glances over to the door,
everything there still reminds him
of the things that happened before.
Carrying a bag with some clothes
he leaves in the morning light,
his mother reads the note he left
as she wakes from a restless night.

Little girl, trying to sleep in your bed
don’t listen to the sound of the bombs nearby
just close your eyes and try not to cry
and let your brother sing you a lullaby.

And don’t listen to the noise of the guns
as the bullets flash by your door, don’t cry
just think of the peace found in sleep
while your brother sings you a lullaby.

Little girl, as you sleep in your bed
when you dream, try not to dream of the day
when soldiers came with their guns
and took your father away.

And when you wake up to a new day
looking for the sun, through the dust and smoke
try to find some hope in that terrible place
as you and your brother strive to cope.

Little girl, war is the world of grown ups
and there is nothing you can do
even if you tell them of your fear and sorrow
no one will listen to you.

But when the war is over and done
and you no longer hear an exploding shell
maybe your young life will be a better place
more like Heaven and less like Hell.

Quiet meal, just the two of us
is something we still like to share.
It’s always easier to be ourselves
when no one else is there.

Slow dance, is still our favourite dance
you and I together, me holding you near.
While you listen as I softly whisper
words of love in your ear.

Gentle passion, that’s how we want it
when you share your love with me.
Still romantic and always tender.
That’s how we like it to be.

Night falls and you share my pillow
feels good holding you close like I do
Dawn breaks and then you kiss me
and I know all I need is you.

He remembers their first time, in the evening chill
near to the cornfield behind the house on the hill.
Where the old folks live who are lost behind its door
and don’t know where, or who they are any more.

He visits her most days, she often doesn’t know who he is
at the house on the hill, where she now needs to live.
Sometimes she looks at him with a certain look in her eye
and he knows that look and he tries hard not to cry.

He wonders if somewhere behind those troubled eyes
the woman he loved so much somehow still survives.
And just occasionally in a moment of lucid thought
she remembers the times when her life was less fraught.

The time they were young lovers, passionate and free
and so happy to be married in the spring of fifty three.
The children they raised and all their cute little ways
and the sound of Sinatra singing, on the airwaves.

He sits in his chair gazing through the window each night
up to the house on the hill, until the last moment of light.
Wondering if she looks down at the place she called home
and if she really knows he still lives there, all alone.

Children playing in the evening sun
running around, just having fun.
Dogs chasing ***** happy to play
rolling in the grass late in the day.
A couple sitting on the ground
trying not to make a sound.
Where so much happened, long ago
on the field where wild flowers grow.

This was a place long before
where men shed blood in a war.
A place of such horror and pain
where men fought and men were slain.
Living in trenches with blood stained pools
with weapons of war, their only tools.
It’s hard to imagine, long ago
on the field where wild flowers grow.

Fledgling birds are trying to fly
into the bright evening sky.
Someone there is trying to pray
children think it’s a place for play.
But you can still clearly see
where the trenches used to be.
Life is so different, than long ago
on the field where wild flowers grow.

An old man stands on his own
he seems content to be alone.
With tears rolling down his face
haunted by memories of this place.
He was here when he was young
cold and scared carrying his gun.
When life was harsh, long ago
on the field where wild flowers grow.

Even though it rises every day
somewhere, someplace in time.
On a day in the life of Jacob
the sun doesn’t often shine.

A shopping centre is bright and loud
and Jacob is sitting on the ground.
With his head buried in his hands
sensory overload of sight and sound.

People notice as he begins to shout
his Mother scared he’ll run away.  
Some think he’s badly behaved
but for him it’s just an Autism day.    

Later he escapes to his room
stressed and needing time alone.  
A meltdown at dinner hasn’t helped
but he’s calmer now, on his own.

Playing at length on his old guitar  
takes his mind to another place.      
Where the demons in his head        
for a while are not in his face.    
                  
Eventually he takes to his bed
and will rise, as soon as it’s light.
Probably won’t have much to eat
appetite dulled by a restless night.

People around him struggle to help
he tries to cope in his own way.
On a day in the life of Jacob
it’s always an Autism day.

But he deserves a chance in life
and we must strive to find a way.
For children like him, with future fears
to be able to seize the day.