Doll

These toys of childhood never last.
The thumbed page of the doll’s eye
Rolls to a bald centre.

This is a parable of loss and care.
How one thing left to lie in light
Fades and flakes with age

Yet seems a miracle. You feel
Your small griefs welling
At its throat: the hands of

Those that handled you, long gone,
Stowed this in the loft,
Trove for your discovery.

It seems a world turned upside down
And when it tilts, it cries.

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