Ellen Phethean
The Brother I Never Had
is a hall of mirrors at the fair
glimpsed through cloud
a memory of long legs, wavy brown hair;
he’s that stranger in a crowd
you think you recognise
until he turns round.
His image in my mind’s eye
is schoolboyish, fleeting.
I wonder, does he still fly?
He’d dip his wings in greeting
as he circled the lighthouse at Land’s End.
He hated mawkishness, and waiting.
Page(s) 6
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