Ellen Storm

Writing the White and Purple Coats

An Occasional Poem

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Armistice Day

 

A café falls silent, apart

from one small child, sat in a pram.

He babbles like an upland brook:

polishing vowels like turning pebbles

rushing to grow

bigger, broader, stronger.

 

It strikes me, the work

to come before he gets there:

loving, tender, joyful – yes

but eighteen years of effort.

Behind him a young woman,

invisible in the tea queue.

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