It looks a little dirty,
a little folded and faded, but
the subject is me.
Age? I guess child,
I can never discern my rings but I
look young, that grade one cut,
thick comfy brown jumper, sat
at the kitchen table reading a non-fiction
magazine about Medieval life, and
though I look at the camera with a smile,
I can see through my mask.

Every week, one specific day when
post would reach us, so would my copy
of that non-fiction magazine. Each issue
full of historical truths that would
keep me out of people’s hair and way,
and I would sit and read and feel and worry
as though this was the only place
that I could avoid those eyes of scrutiny
and judgement.

Why was this photo taken? A dreary, drab
world outside the window behind me,
a boy sat on an uncomfy chair
at a table too high, with a magazine
open on pages about trebuchets?
Who thought this moment worthy
of immortalisation?
I stare at it and see trapped fear,
caged uncertainty and chained loss.