Near Paddington

Dead in the house fire.
Nineteen seventy two.
A girl, six years old.
No remains.

Today.
The Father.
A man of sadness,
age and rheumatism,
celebrates her life.

Walking streets,
with his head down.
Nursery rhymes of her,
only for him.

In a pub,
near Paddington,
he buys one drink.

He fumbles loose change.
And in the sepia mirror,
she’s here.

A woman now.
Waving at her Mother.