11. Feb, 2017
Our rivalries
Were bargained.
He had the pedal car,
The garage with a lift.
I might be allowed
A go, sometimes,
In exchange for a sweet.
But I was older
And often meaner,
Yet we played always.
We were Men from Uncle,
Our equipment old wires
And used batteries
In biscuit tins for radios.
We were Julie and John
(Who went camping),
A ride on our trikes
Round the garden,
Cooking cold water soup
From grass in old pans.
We made scent from rose
petals, which rotted
In its bottles
But was always kindly
Received.
My slaps were sly
And denied
But now and then,
He got his revenge in
Besides.
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.