I stick my head in their den of blankets
and soft edges,
Really, I don’t fit
in this space for children;
of shared stories, giggling torches, favourite teddies.
When I sat in the shade of sheets,
hung on a washing line by my Grandma,
her sunshine flowers peeped in –
cheeky pansies, bleeding hearts,
with a tea set
she always made our Friday afternoons
feel like a celebration,
Taking three buses to see me,
with a paper bag of iced buns and sugar taps
for a sweet lunch
as much for her as for me,
She told stories of 'carecrows',
and a girlhood bicycle with no breaks;
and we skipped and jived to old songs,
On Friday afternoons
I stretched out like a picnic blanket,
covered in sugar crumbs.
So I stick my head into their den;
that hidden place
of children’s games and pansies
and life-long moments,
And tell them to come into the kitchen
for a Friday Treat.