Teddy

The Teddy’s Quiet Tale

In the corner of a little bedroom,
where the light pours like summer’s glow,
lies a worn‑out patchwork teddy—
his stitched smile a quiet hero.

He’s seen the muddy puddles of the Christmas boardwalk,
the giggles of a football match,
the quiet hush when the school whistle blows,
and the scrape of muddy boots he watches neatly by the gate.

Once you press his chin and hear the creak
of a once‑sharp‑toothy king’s elbow,
you’re transported to a far‑away carousel
where dreams are sewn of clouds and kindness.

He has held a pink “lucky” toy while the rain fell in the back‑yard,
been a pillow for the sleepy‑eyed teenager on the sofa,
a faithful listener when mum blames the Wednesdays for chocolate who’d be running ‘n’ shots.

When the school nurse trained a child to stand on a cranky crayon,
the teddy was there—soft‑as‑the‑pitch, warm as tea‑cups—
to wipe that trembling damp‑hand and widen his gaze.
And on the first night of the storm, lights flickered,
and from beneath the duvet—my a‑little hero—
a super‑stitch Parade.

So if you ever turn the wind around,
and the city’s clangless echo tears into the fire‑white sky,
listen to the tug of a scruff‑eyed teddy on your arm, a neighbour‑bound teddy who will never
break a promise or suffer a villain’s featherling, but simply might say in a voice the size of a wisp, “It’s all right. Cozy minutes are almost over. The world is here to lay down the good‑old sand in you, until the next cup of tea.”