She didnít have to. Everyone says
the young no longer write, that thank-yous
are old hat. Texts if youíre lucky, but
donít hold your breath. These days,
what díyou expect? Donít ask.
Another winter morning, thick and grey.
A pink and cheeky envelope blinks on the mat.
My name, careful in wobbling biro
and, inside, lurching careful thanks, and
in her hand; effort and concentration clenched
and no mistakes. She didnít have to
but she did. A shyly hopeful sun breaks through.
If you have any
thoughts about this poem, D.A.
Prince would be pleased to hear them