Peter Pan
Downstairs there would be banging
and plates smashing like weak shells,
our Mum would be flames-fanning
trying to stop raging hell.
She said he couldn’t help it.
She said he liked a few drinks.
But then he’d go, throw a fit,
before she had time to think.
I’d gaze out of the window
and wish I was Peter Pan.
So I could block out his blows
and over the skies I’d span.
Away, away, up on high!
I would take my sister, too.
Riding our carpet of sky,
whilst he beat Mum black and blue.
Sarah Louise Parry is currently an undergraduate Journalism student at Cardiff University.