Poetry

Albert

Playing amongst

the Fresubin -

brightly coloured bottles

that looked so exciting.

One, two, three boxes

of ten.

Endless

soldiers all in a row

straws attached like guns –

how I wish

that had been true.

That when they marched

into your veins they

could have kept you safe.

You were supposed to

drink them

so I held my sippy cup

to your lips,

wiped away your

bubbled spit

so funny to me that

I mirrored you,

dribbling too.

Soldiers in the battalion

declining in number

milk-drink and defences

running low.

No-one answered,

when I asked,

what happened when

we ran out.

I remember watching you

become paper-thin

skin stretched over bones.

Tamsin Connor

© 2014