I

I needed witnesses.
Wait a minute –
There were witnesses
Many of them
And they watched me
As I existed
In a state of utter shell shock,
Flabbergasted, dumbfounded,
All of that and more –
And they saw all of it unfold,
But my story, hasn’t been retold,
Not to me, and not to the world,
I had witnesses, yes,
But they were all devoid,
Of scruples, and of words.

II

I’ve built myself a room
Full of witnesses.
They are each ensconced
In earthern or plastic pots.
I stand back and look at them,
And for some reason, I’m pleased no end.
I needed witnesses,
And there are several now,
As there were then,
Just as silent,
Yet quietly observant,
And sheltering,
If nothing else.

III

I stand back and watch
My witnesses, with a touch of pride.
There is something to be said,
About watching something grow,
Even if contained, and not quite raw.
And then it hits me,
The sudden realisation –
They aren’t witnesses, are they?
For I have utter control,
On their wellbeing, their growth.
How could they not be,
But biased? Growing as they are,
Under what I’ve offered as shelter?
They would perish without a whisper
In a whisker
If I chose not to nurture.

Maybe it was the same
With the witnesses of yore.
Maybe they could not bear
To have the bond cut asunder,
Between them, and perpetrator.
Maybe that is how life unfolds –
When the witness becomes the attacker.