SEVENTEEN
David Jarrett wrote his poems in a spiral bound notebook that he kept under his bed; he did not think other inmates would think very highly of a poet. There was however one poem of which he was particularly proud. It read:
The Ballard of Wakefield Jail
by David Jarrett.
The walls close in
Remorselessly crushing,
Breaking bones
Breaking sprit
No way out
No exit
NO EXIT
There is no silence
Where has all the silence gone?
The noise unceasing,
The moans, the cries, the curses,
The tramp of jackboots, the clang of doors,
The rattle of keys
Echoing around those dull stone walls,
My cell might be a prison,
But the cell does not
Imprison my mind.
Does not contain my rage,
Cannot corral my anger,
Injustice will not lie still,
Will not lay quiescent but cries out,
