I am glad to be your daughter

​​​​​​

In the kitchen in the morning you press

the switch’s quiet click, cast a gold

ward against winter’s slate. The silvered

 

kettle you fill with cold filtered water,

press play, then stand at the garden’s

lakeside listening to its steady crescendo:

 

orchestra ensemble at whose last trumpet

notes you pluck a teabag from the cupboard,

drop it deep into the well of your mug,

 

pour steaming heat, then stand again

at the wide glass doors, waiting for tannins

and the richness of flavour. From

 

the elderflower’s bare arms three netted

feeders wave their empty hands, and from

beneath the sink: a packet of seeds

 

shut tight with a bright orange plastic clip,

you unclip, and, tea forgotten, swap slippers

for boots, pull a cardi across your shoulders

 

and unlock the doors, seed bag in hand.

You unhook the cages, tip them tenderly,

then carefully refill, as if preparing

 

breakfast for your own small children again.

You replace the catches, hook them gently

back on stout branchlets. In the kitchen

 

I remove your soaked and swollen teabag,

replace it with the single splash of milk,

no sugar.

 

When you turn and see me watching,

we share a small smile, like a tiny bird

cupped between us.

 

​​​

By Rachael Hill

​

​

Rachael is a Manchester Poet, founder of ‘The Space Poetic’, and an MFA student at The Manchester Writing School. Her work has recently been published by Ink Sweat and Tears, and Ver Poets, and she was awarded by Wirral Poetry Festival in 2024. She is a lover of cats and climbing.

 

SubStack: Poet Notes

IG: @rhillpoetnotes