Competition

Third Prize

Dungeon on the Hill
by Tom McIlveen
Port Macquarie, NSW

A ridge gum seems so hardy as it grows in rocks and dust,
enduring like that apple gum, we knew and learnt to trust;
that it would still be standing and awaiting our return,
not knowing of our journey and the lessons we would learn.

Just like that gum we persevered, survived the harder years,
despite the separation, all the heartache and the tears.
When relocating saplings, they will struggle to survive,
at best they will be stunted and then rarely will they thrive.

As helpless little children are like fledglings in the nest;
if taken out too early you will traumatise the rest.
The ones that have been taken, will soon fret if they’re denied,
the comfort of a family, alone and terrified.

Our sibling group was split that night in nineteen sixty two,
the younger ones were taken and the elders never knew
the misery and heartache of the dungeon on the hill.
The memory still haunts us and it likely always will.

With fear and apprehension, we were taken in the night;
our father’s sorrow warning us that something wasn’t right.
That first cut was the deepest and the scars would soon reveal,
that wounds no longer bleeding are the ones that never heal.

Like tragic little soldiers marching bravely off to war;
attired in drab grey uniforms and old boots from the store.
The youngest just a baby still, and barely two years old;
left in the nun’s infirmary to stay there we were told.

Ten thousand plus had paved the way and walked the floors before;
their ghostly presence lingered in the basement corridor.
You’d feel them in the clothes we wore for they had worn them too,
and see them in the listless eyes of those we met and knew.

You’d hear them on a windy night, they’d howl and whine and moan;
you’d know they were among us still, their wretched souls unknown.
The chapel every morning, was aglow with candlelight
and offered something better, giving hope and brief respite.

A seed of hope was planted, to be answered with a prayer;
“that God loves little children and he handles them with care”.
We prayed to be delivered from the misery and pain,
the solitude and sadness of that terrible domain.

Those cold New England winters almost more than we could bare,
for hungry little refugees without enough to wear.
The coloured stained glass windows showed how Jesus paid the price;
from birthplace to the manger to his final sacrifice.

Despite his healing miracles, they sentenced him, he died.
Betrayed and persecuted and then cruelly crucified.
His final words inspired us and we knew them to be true;
“forgive them won’t you father, for they know not what they do”.

That hardy apple gum back home was there when we returned,
providing us the comfort which we had for so long yearned.
We’d left as little children and come home as soldiers will,
with smiles to hide the heartache of the dungeon on the hill.