The Bronze Bear Paddington

She stops by the statue, makes her sign,
one hand briefly touches a part that is worn
from these acts of devotion.
She remembers a time when trust came easily
slim fingers inch through years
‘how much she’s grown’.

Secret gestures, palm to face
without psalms in a world that needs its gods,
she rides the ache of worn out clichés.
This icon has reached the world of a child
carried from the car still half asleep
yet cannot understand the origin of sadness
that keeps many at the statue lost in prayer.