Who sees the abuser abuse?

Whos sees when the parent abuses the child?
Does the sun
or the moon
or that creature cringed in the corner,
in some darkened cave of a room?

Whos sees in  a state of impotence
against the tide of guilt?

Who was it saw the abuser abused,
that time when the groundwork was laid,
when a brand new abuser was made?
Who saw its first public appearance,
who saw it rolled off the line,
the last nut tightened, 
each screw in its place,
road-worthy and ready to go?
Did the stars in the sky, their trajectories set
or some creature up on the cornice
spinning its web  for a fix?

Who hears the whispers, the secrets, lies,
that God it is who wants us to...  
and who's the special girl of mine??
Is it the woolly elephant - 
the one with its ears ripped off?
Or the victim - thumbs in hers?
Is it the brother curled in his bed,
or the matchbox pet 
smothered to make the nightmare pass?

Who sees without understanding
when the parent abuses the child,
Who fails in the test of feeling
suffering's secret degree?
Is it the owl, so proud in his wisdom,
the comet that's gone in a flash?
Is it the window, washed by the rain?
The mother, the father, the uncle, the aunt?
The one who is close, but not close enough -
or someone too close for a small child's comfort?

And who will tell of these things?
The Teddy, the doll on the pillow, the action man?
The clown torn to bits in distress?
The headless soldier, the wooden horse,
or the frightened boy with a fork for defence - 
in thirty years time, as a man, of course.

Submitted to The Mag as a (somewhat off-piste) response to Tess Kincaid's thought provoking prompt.