© Museum of Childhood, Edinburgh
“I’ve lost my marbles,” she announced.
“You don’t say,” her father murmured, slotting the circular plane of resinous pine onto dowelling.
“I’m not crying,” she snuffled
“snow melts, I might find them.”
Her Dad nodded, revealing the finished top.
Not the tin one she’d coveted in the holly-trimmed toy-shop, but it pirouetted sweetly, spinning, transformed, a spiral mandala of movement; marbles forgotten.