Dolly

On a dusty shelf in Granny’s attic,
A rag‑clad dolly waits with stitched‑on smile,
Her button eyes have seen a hundred Christmases,
And lullabies sung in a soft, Scottish while.

She’s tucked beside a tin of shortbread biscuits,
A woolly blanket knitted in tartan red,
Her tiny shoes, though scuffed, still point to London streets,
Where children once pushed prams along the cobblestones instead.

Now silent, she holds the echo of childhood giggles,
A gentle reminder that love never truly parts—
Just as the Queen’s Guard stands steadfast in Buckingham’s green,
So does this dolly guard the heart’s young, loyal arts.