365 Poems/95 Daughter (Rough first draft)


You still ask questions. Things like

what’s the best way to find someone

who you’ve lost in a supermarket.


Why does milk run down the underside

of the carton when you pour too slowly,

and why does a biscuit go soft overnight,

whereas a baguette turns rocky and tough.


Summer has been awful. So we’ve decided

to bring our own version indoors.


We put strawberries with rose water and mint,

and slowly whip up a small carton of cream.

It makes me smile to see how the transformation

from liquid to soft peaks still captivates you

at twenty six.


You silently remind me to enjoy uncomplicated things.


We continue to eat the cream with tea spoons

long after the strawberries are finished.


There’s a faint print of henna on your hands,

a thumb ring I’ve never seen before, and from

the looks of things, you’ve stopped biting your nails.


You mention a boy.

He’s taught you impractical ways

of how to get your daily intake of vitamin C.

He’s encouraged you to make a collage,

to help you stay upbeat and focused

during down times and periods of stress.


Long silences are okay now. We are comfortable with them.


I realise that you have suddenly become a woman,

and the happy shock makes me want to beat the moon

as if it’s a steel drum.