Moving Day

Less than three years old
Standing tip-toe-unsteady,
on the neighbours’ old arm-chair. Green, I think.

Fingertips outstretched to the mantelpiece,
to the biscuit tin that lay there.
It was red.
My name, in my mother’s voice, bodiless.
A cautionary tone.
Sounding in the air.
I can hear it.

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