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.