My stuffed toys all imprisoned in a box:
childhood – discarded, yet not thrown away,
their motley colours faded as they lay
within this glass enclosure. Patchwork fox
and beanbag rabbit lie dead side by side
with no more verve to fight or run astray.
These sheep now sleep in fluffy lumps through day
and what strange peace these puppets can abide.
Needing no air, they get none in this case
where clocks have stopped for them, but as for I,
who looked on them so suddenly tonight,
my time still runs, with no longer a space
for these that brought me joy in years long by –
and kept me company in sleeping tight.