Imprisoned

by Angela Prew

A princess waiting
for a frog to kiss?
No!
Entrapped
by a small, sick baby
released from hospital too soon,
for fear of cross infections.
Living in a corner
of a stone manor house,
hidden by winter mists
from empty moorland on all sides.
No sound but my child
crying, crying, crying.
Exploring, desperate,
I found books. An attic
filled with books, crumbling
leather binding, books
last read a hundred
years ago. And now.
I read, baby clinging to me,
a small baboon, his pain comforted
by my silent warmth as I travelled
The Grand Tour, read biographies
of people long-forgotten, philosophies
decades out of date, until
the days grew longer,
my son grew stronger
and his father came home
from the sea.

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