Panda

 

In the garden I cut bamboo,
sat in the damp wintered shade,
let those still standing rustle
through hydrangeas,
against the fence,
dance below
first inklings of rain
kissing my shirt and my hair,
heard your bare foot beats
to and fro
and to again
the pile of sliced stem
behind me,
gathering,
dashing off,
had begun carrying them inside,
said you'd make a den
miles wide with panda fodder,
said monkey would have a bed,
that you'd wear them in your hair.
I didn't mind,
too preoccupied
making loop tunnels for you
between one border
and the next.
I remember my Gran being
a stood back parent,
looking back perhaps
she wasn't stood back,
two steps ahead,
keeping me curious,
creating new spaces
in which I could play.
I think somedays
I'm more like her
than I realise,
watching on,
in the garden,
cutting bamboo.