Jan Finlayson, Pentland Writer's Group


Red suitcase stays home on house arrest, holidays gone in a viral puff. Planes earthed no more lines, those contrail signs, but a straight row of steel
kerbed, like me, apart from love, fun and childish laughter. I lean on nature
turn to the land, canopies of yew guarding birds and bluebells. Ancient trunk whose pointed pins brush the breeze through the tide of time. Buzzards fly from nests hidden high. Hawthorn senses a body spent, pedometer hums at ten thousand steps. Again, I see red. Red wellies appear up a nearby tree. A smile…a voice…granny, it’s me.

Jan Finlayson. Mother, granny, making the most of family contact.