I thought it would be fitting
if we were driving North
to a holiday cottage in Aviemore,
our country rolling out before us, autumn-ripe.
But the NO signs threw me,
more than we expected,
in fields of ginger cows
beside roundabouts, on road signs.
We folded into bed early,
too tired to get close;
the kids suspended in sleep
under skylights and flowery duvets.
Like waiting for Christmas,
exam results or a pregnancy test,
we were practiced, meditative, reverent.
our child’s first foot
in the grey daylight
of someone else’s living room.
I flicked to News 24
where Huw Edwards
sounded resigned, almost melancholy.
No need to sit there in dressing gown
before Cbeebies took rule.
I climbed the stairs to tell you.
Ciara Maclaverty is the 2017 recipient of a New Writers Award for Poetry from The Scottish Book Trust