I miss you, Les.

22539894_2005119899514856_5951162012747563630_n12985349_1390339460992906_8026350811457797346_nI miss the baby you were, eight months old, rosy cheeked still from your nap,

sitting in the middle of the train track, eyes wide, as you watched the headlights

on the engine as it went round and round you in the dark.


I miss the toddler that you were, running through the forest

wearing your cardboard-feathered headdress.

Suddenly falling, head first, and even at that age, 18 months or so,

feeling embarrassment, and hiding your face in your hands when your daddy

lowers his Box Brownie to the ground to photograph your discomfort.

When you thought he’d given up, you lowered your hands, pouted and

were immortalised in that moment.

Blond curls peeping round the edges of your cardboard feathers

and toddler anger in your huge blue eyes.


I miss the little boy you were, lying with your head on my lap

in the back seat of the car whilst I stroked your hair

and practised my mothering.


I miss the man you were, – intelligent,  interesting  and opinionated, but also

always, my little brother.

I miss you, Les.



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