I have a Portuguese granddaughter, Clara,
who insists that only grandad
can read books to her over the phone.
Our favourite and our best books
are Charlie and Lola.
I find it easy to identify with Charlie,
his capacity for reason and tolerance
in the face of Lola’s demands,
when he’d much rather
be playing football with Marv.
I sometimes wonder what Clara will make
of grandad when she has grown
even too big to go to school,
when I have stopped reading stories,
when I’m completely, absolutely not there.
I like to think that one day
she will read my poems and discover
the ubiquity of imaginary friends,
that our teeth must fall out eventually
and our rockets tumble down,
and it’s okay to make mistakes
so long as we say sorry.
That books can be carried
around in our heads,
and how extremely very lovely
it is to build a snowman
and then watch him slowly melt away.
