Dear Granny – an epistle Remember when you took me over the road to Mrs Bowman’s house? I watched you bend down in the garden, cut the dahlias with a knife and drop them in the basket. She gave me lemon squash and Garibaldi biscuits, very chewy. I liked sitting on the upturned bucket watching
EGGING The hedgerow was Dad’s cashpoint; from it he’d casually withdraw the small currencies of wonder: my first finch egg, sheep skulls, an old wren’s nest, the dunnock’s four-way clutch of blue. Slum-cleared city kid, he had ranged the estate margins into edgelands to forage new-found greenery; suck marrow from deciduous bones, lap time like
She stops early, and for three minutes she is caught in an absence of being. All around her, arms scribble frantically until the invigilator’s voice subdues them and they fall. A forest of chair legs uproots. She is washed down the curving staircase by students who hug and cry and wave. She squeezes behind
Do not make me go home. Home is where the heart is, but that heart is too heavy to hold. Full of worries, weighed down with must-do and should-have and so much what-if, draped in thick expectation and all-powerful upheld reputation. Home is where the cares are, though I care not for them.