It was not a real doll’s house.

the discarded chest of drawers

standing against the fence,

a four-storey mansion

without gables and windows.

Tears of rain ran down its sides;

summer sun bubbled the white paint.

It was really too big,

difficult to fill and make cosy.

Some of the furniture was handmade

of cork and steel pins

with wool wound round and round

clumsy upholstery.

The cheap plastic furniture looked better.

Lolly pink bath and basin,

the pale blue dining table, white kitchen sink.

The carpets were real carpet, too thick,

and some of the wallpaper said happy birthday.
My father made rockers and desks and rounder bats,

even cradles and dolls’ beds,

but not a doll’s house.

He couldn’t see the point;

He’d never had one.
The dolls’ house mother was an ex-angel

with wings removed,

breastless, but plump and motherly enough.

The doll’s house children were twin girls.

There was no father.

He was absent, away, awaited.
I searched often for the perfect father doll

and told stories about his absence

and his finally coming home
But he never did.