The Pink Bag Poem by Ruth Walters

It spoke of
undiscovered treasures,
conjured places she'd visit
one day.

There was a pocket for lipstick,
mummy's of course,
and another for
a powder puff.

If she delved further
there was a lace handkerchief
and a purse with a lucky
sixpence in it.

The child strutted
up and down the garden
holding on to the bag,
clutching it tightly,

wiggling her hips
and singing to herself,
posing by the flower beds
and smiling broadly.

She was wearing mummy's
high heeled shoes.
One day, she'd grow out of pink
but for now

I watched her, adoringly,
envying her innocence
and wishing I'd
a pink bag too.