As he gazed up from his buggy with wondrous eyes,
A plume of mushroom shaped smoke
Hovered darkly above his head,
Poisonous fumes from the glowing stick
His mother clenched between her lips,
He marvelled as she exhaled,
Every puff obscuring her face
In a peek-a-boo game he’d played before,
She’d reappear suddenly with a throaty cough
Then bend and sweep him up,
Pressing his face into the familiar
Acrid perfume of her jumper,
He was too young to have a choice
Or to know that her selfish habit,
Would eventually cause
His untimely death.
Diane Scantlebury
