Mummy and Daddy were so near,
just through the door.
Just through the door
from that back kitchen
to the front room
with its tiny diagonal
glazed entrance.

The front room
where they sat; Daddy's friend,
a workmate, and his wife.
But then there was
their son.
A man who seemed so old
with oily hair
and white nylon socks
with black shoes.

In the distance they chatted,
laughed away the afternoon
while a ten-year-old marched
and swung her arms
and jumped up and down
and, when instructed,
leaned over a table.

"For a ten-year-old,
for a ten-year-old"
she was a big girl.

She knew
because he told her.
He knew
because he felt her.
Cupped her child's breasts
in his work-rough hands
until she felt the stirrings
which were not yet hers to know.

Even now
decades later
white socks
with black shoes
make her cringe and look away
but cause her thighs to ache with longing.

Ever since,
Mummy and Daddy
have been just a little
further away.