A Pome for Rebecca

And as well, there is the poetry that we shared, as well as the bristly paintbrush and the occasional art book, signed with love and metaphorically flung at my head. He read my poetry and I read his; he was a wordsmith to his bones and believed I was too; as a father should. Poetry is the little pulse that I shared with the visiting artists, art school events and tutors, bemused boyfriends and indifferent girl friends. At nine years old, I announced I was going to be an artist. I never announced I was going to be a poet though; I just was.