She wants to hear some of my poems.
You don’t get asked that too often.
So I choose the bright ones, the buoyant ones,
the ones with a lot of bounce.
She loves ‘The Wrong Saint’
the one about getting lost on our way back from the winery
and praying to St. Francis, instead of St. Christopher,
the patron saint of travellers.
No wonder we were getting lost.
We were praying to the wrong guy.
She loves Quilton too, that one I posted,
an early Covid poem,, Quilton Loves Your Bum’
with all its jackanapery.
I used to read to her as a child,
little stories I made up,
and now I’m reading to her again,
my little story poems,
at the age of 18.
my grand-daughter, Grace.
And she still loves what I write.
Can I stop now, I ask,
a little exhausted.
It’s good to have a fan.