To a Boy Making a Paper Hat
He cuts a halo from today’s news.
His word-nest becomes a world
grown by buttresses of paper.
When I say he can bin the scraps,
he laughs and weaves the trash
into a garland.
Mum arrives and he leaves it
all behind: his cap
with its brimful of stories
of climate wars, wells drying.
A mizzling sleet descends.
I stand in front of our cathedral
wearing his hat
lit by stars long dead,
the darkness not yet overcoming.
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