To the lady in the ten year old's shoes, with the home-made haircut and the cabbage stuffed in her handbag

Thank you.
You made
me smile.

Round Trip

She sits beside me, this side
of me that travels past my
stop. This part of me is
close but every journey
brings our parting closer.

Faces at the station smile
in recognition. Features that
gave form to me now strain
to make our sameness into
something more than breeding.

Sipping cups of tea we look
for similarities, search for
anything to bring us closer
than these family albums,
more than merely photofits.

Every visit leaves a simple
message, tells us not to look
at pictures for connections.
Says the things that matter
lie in loving every minute
of our children’s lives.

Travelling back beneath the
Channel, I can feel my Mum
and Dad begin to fade.
Turning to my little girl,
I smile and hold her hard,
make the most of what I have.

Growing Up

Oblivious as the lambs
to gathering grey-cloud
wolfpacks creeping round
Yr Wyddfa’s shoulders, we
begin our mountain walk.

Our singing steps trail off,
grow silent, turn into a hard,
unspoken trudge past stragglers,
passed by stronger legs than ours.

The twos and threes become
a crowded corridor, the
narrow path a cold bad-
tempered waiting room where
queues can choose between
boot-polished, black-ice steps
or softer snow that gently lies
beside a hundred metre drop.

Instead of turning back we
take our place and claw for
certainty with frightened
fingers, kicking hopeful
footholds, reach for safety.

My daughter looks up, turns
back, asks me where to go.
I don’t know. My helpless,
hovering hands can’t calm
her shaking legs. My anxious
eyes try smiling, try thawing
frozen phrases into words
of warming reassurance.

She scrambles up. She’s fine.
I scream inside and quickly
join her, hug her like our
lives depended on it.

Something changed today.
The rock-hard trust, her childish
certainty in me gave way.
An inch, no more, but now
she’s leading, leaving me to watch.

Freiya

There, blurred, trying to hide
behind the smiles of happier children.

Look closer at her eyes, empty
of the laughter wrinkling others' faces.
Follow the frown down to her mouth.
Tight-wrapped around her silence.

Remember the words you heard an hour
before the picture. "I am bullied."
That line, so unpoetic, so out of place in
such a happy situation, demands attention.

And, while Freyia hides behind her face,
her parents laugh and have another drink.
The coach moves off. Her friends go home.
Freyia stands alone and waits for Mum and Dad.