The blackbird watches me
from the plum tree
my daily bluster
the ritual of housework.
The blackbird cocks its head
adjusts for a better view,
shiny eyes searching for
cat biscuits, chicken food.
I want this blackbird as my friend
hop down without fear,
feed from my hand,
like it did once.
But I tried to touch
I broke the trust
now the blackbird watches
from a safe distance.
from the plum tree
my daily bluster
the ritual of housework.
The blackbird cocks its head
adjusts for a better view,
shiny eyes searching for
cat biscuits, chicken food.
I want this blackbird as my friend
hop down without fear,
feed from my hand,
like it did once.
But I tried to touch
I broke the trust
now the blackbird watches
from a safe distance.
Grandma's Lap
When we were on a car trip with Grandma and Grandad, Grandad would always drive, he was good at it.
He used to be a racing driver, 1st at Silverstone in 1957.
He had to give up and missed it.
He had lost part of his foot when the engine of the E-type Jaguar he was racing exploded.
He hobbled around, with an insert to pad out his shoe, and used a walking stick a lot.
But in the driver's seat nothing had changed, his response to the road was marvellous.
Dad would sit next to him, the son and heir. Proud and trying to live up to the expectations of his father.
It is hard to live up to war hero, captain of industry, and racing driver, Mr McMillan sir at the factory in Stalybridge.
Dad would sit stiffly, in the passenger seat, trying not to say too much.
I would be in the comfortable back seat, of the latest new car, with Grandma.
And she would, with uncharacteristic sentiment and gentleness, lie my head in her lap, and tell me stories.
I would look up at her adoringly, which she liked, and idly play with the lovely necklace she wore.
A long gold link chain, and at the end, it had a gold bauble, shaped like a hazelnut, with a little clock set in its base.
Sometimes she would let me wind it, carefully, with my rough country kid fingers.
The stories were always of Horace and Doris, they were hobgoblins, who lived in the local wood.
The plots mainly consisted of domestic duties and minor troubles with neighbours.
What was wanting in literary device was made up for in my mind.
I closed my eyes, snuggled in at her maternal bosom, sniffed up her expensive scent, and let myself relax.
Every time we took a drive, to Alton Park or Chatsworth, the destination was irrelevant.
It was all about the story.
"Please Grandma, tell me more about Horace and Doris".
"Oh, Eliza, I don't know if they have any more adventures".
But they always did,
and I would settle into the life of the backseat.
That time I got trapped in an elevator.
At the Natural History Museum of Vienna. Dad and I were not getting on.
I was stroppy, and some local boys started following me around.
I tried to evade them by a quick floor change via the lift.
Phew, in. Push the button for the ground floor.
The lift moves down a couple of centimetres, then stops.
What have I done? Why does this always happen to me?
How long have I been in here? Will Dad leave without me?
All sorts of fears intensified by the closeness of this windowless space.
I start to panic.
I hear voices outside the doors. Has someone realised?
The next thing I knew, a pry bar came through the door, used by an enormous security guard.
He opens enough of a gap for me to climb out.
Then, to be reassuring, he pats me on the head and, in a terminator Arnie voice, says, "It's alright, little girl".
The humour of the gesture breaks through my shock.
I saw the boys who were following me laughing at the situation.
But full of newfound strength I stride past them to the stairs.
I rush to find my father, who is impatiently waiting for me at the entrance.
"Where have you been?!"