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a solemn child on the lower deck
twists sideways in his buggy
to look at me. he fixes me with a frown
so intensely sorrowful
that I feel my heart breaking.
he doesn’t speak or smile or wave;
his mum in a fur gilet, scraped back up-do
and fierce attitude, refuses to engage,
succumbs to a profound languor.
slumped back in her seat,
she resists the worry in his blue eyes
so that foreboding for his future
lodges somewhere in my chest.

 

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