Mon Enfant. A poem by John Atkinson

His strong French nose
Long and classic
Could not hold the mask-
As it slipped into his moustache.

His ears lifted, and the mask
Slipped deeper into the dark bristles.
A smile was hidden behind
His granddaughter bounced into sight.

He moved a step forward
Arms outstretched
She held out her elbow to him
A modern embrace.

His elbow moved but his hand
Froze, ready to lift her into the air
As he had dreamed during lost Covid
Months of longing isolation.

She wagged her finger
Fix your mask grandpa, it is slipping.
You are old and of a vulnerable age
His ears dropped, mon Enfant.

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