Tag Archives: childhood

The shoebox in the attic – new poem.


© David Milligan-Croft.                                                                                  

I look at myself – not in a mirror,
But in an old black & white photograph.

It’s about forty-odd years old now,
And there’s a tear down the middle,                                                                       Where another photograph
Was stuck to it.

I am on the doorstep of someone’s house –                                                                      It could be mine – I’m not sure.
The door is open, and inside,
I can see a battered old pram

And a vinyl chair with metal legs.                                                                                       The house looks old,
Judging by the worn door frame
And the rounded edges of the bricks.

I am about two, I think.
I have jelly-bean sandals and white socks                                                                     On chubby white legs. I presume I have shorts on
But that is the part that’s torn.

I am wearing a thick, woolly cardigan.                                                                              I’m being hugged
In my huggable cardigan
By a woman I do not know.

When I say, “woman”,

She looks about fifteen.
And is wearing a shiny floral blouse                                                                            And black ski-pants                                                                                                       Which I am sat upon.

She has her face squished up against mine,                                                                     Like she loves me, or something.                                                                                        And her arms wrapped tightly around me,                                                                      As though she’s afraid I’ll disappear.

I am so scrunched up
That my head dominates the rest of my body.                                                   Beneath my fair-haired fringe
I wear a frown.

My furrowed brow is depressed
Onto two depressed eyes.
She looks happy.

I do not.


Filed under Art, Children, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing