by Angela Prew

A princess waiting
for a frog to kiss?
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decades out of date, until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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s