Downstairs.
He was five when she fell
From grace.
They had been lost in a world
Of soft toys and silhouettes
When they came too close
To the ledge they’d always been told
To avoid, and the steps
That were not meant for playing.
He would blame himself
In later years. He was
older, wiser;
She would always be three.
He never told them
That her bear fell first, dropped
From his fist like a stone
Plummeting into the ocean;
Revenge.
He hadn’t realised
That she would go after it;
His grip on her dress slipping
And her limbs cartwheeling
As she flew, free
And landed at their father’s
feet.
He clutched a shred of cotton
As he looked after her,
Admiring her crimson halo
And thinking her beautiful.
He was five when she fell
From grace.
They had been lost in a world
Of soft toys and silhouettes
When they came too close
To the ledge they’d always been told
To avoid, and the steps
That were not meant for playing.
He would blame himself
In later years. He was
older, wiser;
She would always be three.
He never told them
That her bear fell first, dropped
From his fist like a stone
Plummeting into the ocean;
Revenge.
He hadn’t realised
That she would go after it;
His grip on her dress slipping
And her limbs cartwheeling
As she flew, free
And landed at their father’s
feet.
He clutched a shred of cotton
As he looked after her,
Admiring her crimson halo
And thinking her beautiful.