A Spectacularly Sunny Day in York

Henrietta is thirteen and an Eagle Owl. She could live to be fifty in captivity. I just love her expression, slightly miffed and forbearing for the present. That's teenagers for you.

I have been many many times to York, as had my friend, when we met up for a day out there. Neither of us, though, in our entire lives, in my case lengthier, had gone on a day when it was fit for a trip on the river. This day it was, to such an extent that we didn't even have to don our cardies against the Ouse breeze. I learnt that the name of Minster, originally, had nothing to do with being a Cathedral of note but simply meant that it was some kind of church by a stream. There were students frantically practising their competitive rowing skills as we drifted by and happy drinkers unable to believe their luck that they could sit by the river on a sunny day, which we joined in with afterwards. There were owls, hand reared, in the old Abbey grounds, which for a fee you could have your picture taken with. The owls, though, were old hands at refusing a photo opportunity, having heads they can turn 360 degrees at will, so try as you might, if they don't feel like it, they simply will not face front.

Henrietta is thirteen and an Eagle Owl. She could live to be fifty in captivity. I just love her expression, slightly miffed and forbearing for the present. That's teenagers for you.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And my own ted must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds,

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.