She plumps up cushions on her sofa
in a flat off Baker Street tube,
two miles from the bookstore
where her mother tore a page: a poem
about a soldier who never came home,
framed it at her pre-fab, then made
cornflake-packet soles to replace the holes.
On nights alone she would hold his pocket watch,
the steady tick but a glance away
from her father's eyes.
Sharon Woodcock
Ashford, Kent, UK
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