RAPPORT
Sally McLennan,
alone on the lawn in her clean linen apron,
feels once more the wholesomeness of blossom, of earthenware,
of mown grass and stone….
She has sown and grown so many things!
Her father – somewhat suited to his thrawn, threadbare chair;
to his room that bears no pastel colour; no flower –
refuses to be touched by her nurturing hands.
Her nine-year-old son,
totally unaware of any screen, any stained air,
teaches him immediately.
There begins an even finer kind of growing.
Copyright © JENNY JOHNSON