Brava (poem)
The tall sunflowers bowed their heads outside
the tinted taxi windows. Back in Scotland
the oil seed rape is short and half yellow.
Earlier my sister yanked at my niece’s arm
like an angry bell ringer or trying start a stubborn lawn mower
the silence is still heavy but wasn’t enough
to drown the homecoming of nights as warm as our hottest days.
Taking me back to stand on the tiles, tired and relieved
With someone around ten years my junior, snug
and viable under stretchy pre teen skin.
Their shock washed him out
and I held the child to my breasts
like our midwife
was David Attenborough.
