Just in case I should ever get above my station…..
My daughter asked me once, “what are you mummy?”
I stopped sweeping autumn leaves and sat on the garden bench with her,
a still warm October, the borders glowing, the stone under our feet not cold.
“I’m a poet who gardens.” I said
“and a gardener who makes frocks and
a seamstress who writes poetry.
What do you think I am?” I asked her, curling a stray strand of hair around her ear.
“You’re the cushion plumper,” she replied.