by Isla

To the rescue

In which we meet a memory

Wellies call to mind

Eight year old me, ankle-

Deep in sloppy peat and sinking.

No Prince Charming, he, but adept at

Extracting be-boggéd maidens nevertheless.

Scooped up beneath my arms, I

Dropped into adoration as he dropped me onto solid ground,

And watched him go back for the lone welly, its

Yellow rim indignant against the mud.

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