She held high the t-shirt of a 

frame of boy, her smile of pearls

beneath her dark black skin,

     the t-shirt an advert that her Islands -

the best, - and then to the pants,

underwear and socks.

 

     All in her barrel, she foamed the

bubbles of everyone of them, for

everyone of them - she loved.

 

     This boy; a sapper she looked on

with need, this boy - a cook she could

teach bar-b-q,

     this boy - the t-shirt as big as a

house;- a guardsman from blighty now

Sun burned and peach.

 

     She washed all their doby, 

looked away at any of blood for

the tears in her eyes, for she could

feel for every one of them, just boys 

from the hood very much like herself,

     given little in cards that

sponsor all life.

 

     'But what 'they' didn't know as

she rinsed out their dirt, is that

she followed them from Britain 

     just to be by their side,

     a previous tenant at an orphanage

dwelling, sited secret and hidden

within a Garrison mile.'

 

 

Michael J Waite 13th July 2022

     (For all those never knowing 'You're' loved more than you know).