Hidden
Rachael Barnes-Powell
My father collects model trains
Engines, stations, trees – all miniaturised
populate his shed
His own personal paradise
over which he is god
Plastic bodies lie cold
Waiting for him to bring them to life
I was allowed to watch
as he worked in mausoleum-like silence
Sending engines hurtling along
metal heartlines
back to their homes to sleep
His own bed lay empty
My mother chose to ignore
the universe hidden in her garden
Preferring to spend time with the worms
making homes in the soil
of her chrysanthemums
Planting rose bushes before the shed
in the hope their seasonal bounty
would hide her permanent shame
I think I was the only visitor
to my father’s world
before moths moved in
Now the door is swollen
rain drips through the roof
But those trains wait for him
Itching to come back to life