Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood

Skin waxy as white candles. Beneath
velvet bonnets they have ringlets
of real hair, painted eyes that stare

and stare in periwinkle blue.
Their cherry lips are chipped,
cracks craze their bisque faces.

Ruched and frilled they sit on glass
shelves starched and prinked in stained
lawn pinafores endlessly pouring tea.

But they will not tell. Will hold fast
their secrets beneath percale and pink
foulard, dumb witnesses to those cold

nursery fears. Downstairs: lights, oranges,
a Viennese waltz… in her window-seat
the beaded sweat of glass.

Lulled by laudanum she hugs the limp
cloth-body to petticoats and shift, in cambric
shadows reaches for a cool china hand.

Content and Poetry © Sue Hubbard 2004
Images maybe subject to copyright


The International Association of Art Critics
© 2013 Sue Hubbard