In ancient woodland
this child roamed,
lost in nature,
briar & loam.
Mapping clearings,
badger setts,
the places where
the deer had slept.
Picking berries
hops & flowers,
lying under
stripling bowers.
Until evening's
amber gloam,
with twiggy hair
racing home.

If I was my own man
I’d be out not in
I’d be bad not good
I’d eat goose not food
I’d be loose not leashed
I’d be first not least
I’d be chaser not chased
I’d be stud not chaste
I’d be wolf not woof
I’d be riffraff not poofed
I’d be beast not boy
that is...
until dinnertime.

Okay Mummy?

I'm squirrel watching.
I'm watching you and
those buxom cheeks,
filled by twitchy nibbles.
Then frozen features as you pause
to look right at me,
trapped and double glazed,
impotent indoors.
And I wince a little,
my tummy tickles
as you return to your meal
with another bite
from your nimbly nutgrasping paws.

Some mornings
I look at my face
and feel a pang of loss.
Like a thing once
fresh and succulent,
forgotten then found
grayed and desiccated
and stuck to the back
of the fridge.

I exaggerate.

Yet I am too old to be salad.