Loss

Once
I was supreme
in glorious martial red
and insignia of gold,
a mount for my mistress;
sometimes a noble steed
prancing through time;
sometimes a mechanised
monster
racing the wind,
scattering gravel
in the face of rivals.
On quiet days
I was a boat
or a balloon aloft.
Either way
I’d float
while
my little mistress
day-dreamed.

Then,
all those long years
deserted
in the garden,
weed encrusted, rusted,
enduring weather,
I imagined her chubby face
shining, delighted:
she running to embrace me.

But,
I did not know War;
fathers leaving wives and children
to sacrifice supremely.
I could not see that Time
makes changes
so we cannot recognise
old loves and passions.

Now,
who is this creature,
long-legged and slender,
standing close, so close
to her soldier Dad
in the garden?

Saying,
‘Is this really my treasured trike,
my noble steed,
my boat of dreams
that I have longed for
all these years?
It’s small and rusty.
Daddy, Daddy, please,
can I have
a two-wheeler?’