Revised version

In the morning,
when you rub your eyes,
the door opens,
and mummy calls…
“Hurry, or we’ll be late!”
Our jeep lies purring in the driveway.

You sit above me on the stairs,
Your brown hair, straight down your sides,
You look at me, without a whisper,
Waiting for something, eating your biscuits.
I try to comb your strands,
but you shake them again, wilfully.

The hunt begins, for your footwear,
hidden among the bric-a-brac,
the assortment of toys, and boxes…
one push and I’m sure it will be alright,
but your tiny feet, seem far too big for the space.

So, I undo your straps and start once more,
In earnest…
Attempting to persuade them in,
coaxing them along,
And tie them gently.

Now, you are free to stand,
And I can swing you up,
High, into my arms,
My sweet Emily.



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