My single wellington boot
can still be found in your garden,
sitting in an ocean of grass;
dried earth and leaves crusted
into its treads. Its green frog eyes
blinded now by muddy cataracts.
I have only a shadowy recollection
of the little girl who lost its partner
chasing cows in fields
she was not supposed to play in.

One frog was left drowning in the mud,
leaving one stripy-socked foot
kicking in the air in protest
at being carried home in strong arms.
One face pressed against a scruffy green Barbour
smelling of wax and woodsmoke
and wet September afternoons.
One child carried home to dance ankle-deep
in a bath too hot to sit in, stirring up
clouds of citrus-scented foam
that washed away grimy tear tracks.

My bath still froths though the steam is fragranced
with burnt orange. Superheated water still strokes
red swathes across my skin. I still duck
under the surface to erase the tear tracks,
but now I close my eyes and imitate Ophelia
until stars in my vision burn angry holes in my lungs
and I am forced to surface,

gasping and cascading water onto
the bathroom floor where it will find a way to drip
through to the kitchen below
where my boots lie discarded on the floor.
Water beads along the length of sleek
brown leather, sliding along the slender curves
that embrace grown up legs
and down over heels that taper to a point,
to pool on the lino.

If I lose these shoes I must hobble
home barefoot. I am too heavy for you to carry now.