The three boys sat in a row,
Like rabbits caught in the glare of car headlights:
“Tharn” was the word on Watership Down.
Father had told them to be quiet and polite when visitors called,
And they all obeyed. They knew their place.
Even if fearful, it was better not to speak up, rock the boat,
Split the family, suffer the backlash, face uncertainty.
Better the devil you know, even if he is your dad.
Their little sisters ran around, as any little child would,
Chattered and played; but the three boys sat, as instructed.
While father raged, complaining of bureaucrats and red tape,
Of nosey neighbours and the faults of his wife,
They sat on the settee and watched.
Not actually the blank stare of rabbits, but intent,
Looking for signals, reading the runes,
Carefully and skilfully assessing risk,
Avoiding the tongue, and perhaps the blow –
After the social worker had left.
It was hard to judge, visiting the family,
Just what was going on. Was it an ordinary family,
With a firm father, who kept his children respectful and in line?
Or were the watchful eyes concealing fear?
Difficult to tell, but if the matter came to Court,
Suspicions of abuse would be incorroborable.
And if there were a death, it would be one more case
Where the social worker failed to act.