The Book
The binding is split, idly, by a ragged thumbnail.
Lazy in the corner, the ladybird's
echo on every slim, neatly stacked book.
Peter has a ball. Jane sees the ball. I see
a blue ribbon and a
white sun dress, a neat centre parting
and a fixed grin; an idyll in pastel.
Monday morning on her lap
safe, curled amidst the scent of laundry
and home baking.
The jumbled shapes rearrange beneath a determined finger
into sounds and words and finally
into whole worlds
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