Long White Socks (Poetry)

They marked me out — plain ankle socks against
the ranks of Daz-washed hosiery, knee-high
and hugging calves — their Bri-nylon/cotton mix
confident as smiles I couldn’t match.

In line, the snow-clad scissoring of legs —
except for mine — socks sleeping in my shoes
shins gypsy-bare, feet turned awkward — shod
in boat-big shiny laceups, new for term
and hated for their brownness, polished, buffed
too boyish-ugly — had I any choice.

The other girls all t-bars, buckles, bows
and snobby patent leather gleaming black
princess-like in their preening, even then
knowing that shoes matter — made their point.

But most I envied them their long white socks
and wrote it clearly on my Christmas list
wished desperately — but nothing came of it
because my mum — insensitive, unmoved
and too-long stuck in war’s utility —
said I’d have brown, and like it.

My daughter wore the socks I wished I’d had —
the fancy patterned pairs I chose for her —
and never knew the triumph that I felt
at last — some consolation secondhand —
as she strutted proud in cherry leather shoes
all straps and dainty buckles on parade
and sure she looked as good as all the rest —
her long white socks a treat.