For Fiona
Today, the first edition - 1947 - with fine cross -
hatched illustrations arrives from eBay,
in a cellophane-covered never-before-
seen dust wrapper. The apple-coloured
jacket was long gone by the time the Green
Storybook fell into my chubby hands in the
sixties. I taught myself to read from that book,
Enid Blyton's distinctive script
running across the darker green cloth cover.
I would look for her again and again,
the Secret Garden door,
that first Royal Flush, the miracle
of the black marks straightening themselves
out into sense across the page,
saying this way, this way
you'll escape.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem