Irony

Sonnet: On re-visiting 10 Gordon Terrace

So that’s the wretched house that once contained

A bedded child, awaiting, expectant,

To capture murmurs of a love disdained,

My father’s sin, my mother's discontent.

I feared their talk might stumble into deeds,

A curse, perhaps a rupture, leaving me,

A child still influenced by infant needs,

Given to tears and sensed redundancy.

Talk became deeds and then mere silent space,

A couple cut in halves, all comfort flown,

For me a taint of undeserved disgrace,

The withered hopes of youth ungrown.

Older, among the bones of memory,

I ironise adult complacency