"IT’S MY FRIEND!”

It’s Tilly’s first
football match.

She watches the ball
move amongst men

as if it had a life
of its own

and laughs at
the players chasing it.

At half time numb
fingers clasp a Bovril.

I ask her: “Well. . .
what do you make of it all?”

I see myself reflected
in her 3-year-old eyes.

She smiles and says”
“I like the way the grass is!”

“Oh. . !” I say
in my adult way.

She now
down on her belly

eyeballing the grass
at its own level.

Each blade
a green individual self.

“Daddy, how.  .  ?”
she enquires of me.

“. . .many blades of grass. . .”
“Eh, yeah. . ?” I encourage her.

“. . .are there
in a football pitch?”

I hazard a guess
“Oh, two million and. . .2!”

She likes
the exactness of the fact.

Happy with her
Daddy’s answer.

Trusts he’s right
down to the very last two.

“I like grass!”
she announces.

“It’s my friend!”
she smiles.