“The boots are just brill, Gran!”
and off with a stomp and a skip,
Proud in her birthday Doc Martens, my lass is away
To her first teen-age party!
I wave her good-bye down the lane,
Then, back in the kitchen, sit hulling the strawberries for jam,
A good long tedious task that will keep me up working
Till midnight or so (just in case!…)
But sharp on the stroke
Of eleven, my Cinders returns, sleepy stars in her eyes,
A wilting wild rose in her hair…
“A good party, love?”
“Brill!"
And she, far too weary for biscuits
Or orange-juice, floats towards bed.
I hastily finish
My jampots and cautiously creep to her door…
On the table,
Her diary lies open, the rose in a tooth-glass beside it…
And she, like the girl in the ballet, lies slumped in her chair,
While behind her closed eyelids, I fancy, a Rose-sprite, arrayed
In celestial Doc Martens, gambols and stomps his bright way
Through her dreams…
Adding your comment:
How charmingly lovely! 
