It’s been six days since I wrote a poem but joy comes in many forms, at six a.m.
 each morning my grandson has woken me, climbed into bed and asked for my pen
and notebook to start his day, he likes my pen of many colours. I like his bold swirls
and circles, the way he draws smiles bigger than people’s heads, the way he sees
each line as something frames in his mind, this straight line is up or down and then it
curves round and zig-zags in changing colour and is superimposed with larger circles,
 and here the page is indented with dots from the previous page that remind me of
his grandfather, the strength in his hands so that anything he writes presses through
 several pages, and these dancing swirls remind me of my daughter, and the afterthoughts
 – the little added-on circles and extensions, his father; but this freedom, this joy is
 all his own, these colours and swirls, the way he runs and gallops through the day,
laughing, with a little seriousness when he’s learning or missing someone – the careful
heart shapes.