Three sisters, booted, in their Sunday frocks.
The youngest pouts, disgusted by her lot,
her hair a spiky scrunch, too short for bunches.
The jersey thrust on her causes her to hunch.
Is it a disguise for a mess that lies beneath?
Inside an anger brews, beware of its release…

The middle stands with shoulders back, chest out,
a face that boasts I’m beautiful and proud.
You can tell she’s used to getting her own way,
there’s a quizzical look in her eyes as if to say,
I wonder what it’s like to live like you,
a life where others tell you what to do…

The last child bends, she knows the weight that comes
from the expectation laid on the oldest one.
To rub it in the middle is the belle –
she wouldn’t say it but the oldest knows it well –
instead, with pencil clenched she etches out
her sister’s eyes when no-one else is about.

Three sisters, booted, in their Sunday frocks,
this sepia picture puts them in the dock,
and there we’ve stared at them and weighed their deeds,
a judgement forged from imaginary feats.
Extrapolating from this snapshot caught in time,
where would you stand within this awkward line?

This photo was unearthed as part of my wife’s family tree research. What a wonderfully expressive trio of faces demanding to be interpreted. I didn’t mean for this one to rhyme, but it just came out that way – does it work or just make it twee? I’m not sure, perhaps reading it again in the morning will answer that one!
(30.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025