There’s a picture of you holding me in your arms. I can’t be bigger than one of your RAF boots, the ones as polished as your Brylcreemed head. It’s nice knowing the baby ears in that photo heard your voice. Perhaps it talked to them about Yorkshire puddings or where made the best beer: Malta, Singapore, or Beverley. Perhaps they told me to stop crying or whispered Everything will be OK.
© Carl Burkitt 2022