the letter

she worked with her pencil and paper
while her mother did the ironing
it was common practise for the child
she ofttimes delighted in drawing
but today she didn’t sketch, she scribbled
precise loops forming between the lines
I’m writing a letter to Nana, she said
’cos I really miss her sometimes

her tiny tongue writhed around, in and out
of her pursed rosebud mouth
as she thought of the things that she wanted to say
then carefully wrote them all out
she must’ve had a whole lot to tell
for she’d soon filled up three foolscap pages
of beautiful Os neatly strung in a row
she focused on it for ages

she curled, round her finger, a golden blonde lock
and gently pulled at her hair
then for a while her deep sea-green eyes
stared vacantly into the air
the pencil was waved around and around
as she sat there contemplating
her shoes drummed the table in rhythmic tattoo
as she returned to her creation

she wriggled a bit, between lots of head scratching
and carefully looked over her letter
her cute freckled nose wrinkled up while her mind
decided if she could be neater
she gnawed a little on the end of the lead
holding the paper, she rocked to and fro
and then, with a shrug of her four year old shoulders
resolved it was ready to go

to the editor that is, for she slipped off her chair
and carried the missive to Mother
before we post it, I want to be sure
(but I don’t want to be a bother)
that Nana will understand what I’ve said
she quietly asked Mum’s deciphering
would you read it to me? I’m only little you see
I can only write reading, I can’t yet read writing
.