3. Jul, 2020
He was a handsome child,
Unselfconscious and smiling,
A happy Prince
Leading along his small procession
Of podgy Princesses
On their tubby, Shetland steeds.
They clamoured for them,
Donkeys relegated to the leggier leftovers
Of children as old as the boy,
Their feet dangling down clumsily.
Still clinging precariously to their right for a ride,
They were on the cusp of change, as he was.
The simple moment’s transience
Was caught up in the parade’s shadows,
Which washed into the sands as they passed.
For the ride itself was as short as childhood,
And due to be over all too soon.
Ruth Enright
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.