In our home with three sisters privacy was unknown.

Sometimes I craved solitude and quiet to read a book!

I had bolt holes.

 

There was always crawling under a bed quilt.

But that was glaringly obvious, stuffy and dim.

And the blanket pulled on my hair.

 

A roomy closet with a flash light wasn't bad.

But awkward balancing the book and the torch

And turning pages with the clothes so close.

 

The roof of the garage was ideal, legs over the peak,

Back against the birdhouse, a cushion for my butt,

A bottle of water and surround sunlight. Bliss.

 

At Grandma's house, it was a small, wooden arm chair

On thick grass beneath the huge tree, under a sheet.

Summer holidays' heaven for hours.

 

Until one day Mummy interrupted me on purpose.

I threw back the sheet with a scowl, even for Mum,

And she had a camera which she clicked, instantly.

 

Oh, the face! The honesty of it. Such a glare captured

For eternity. My mother laughed fit to kill herself.

It is one of the favourite photos of my whole life.