She can’t take her family
in the suitcase, or her house.
She can’t bring her best
TV programmes, her favourite
oak tree at St Leonard’s, or
her school, but she is tempted
to bring her cacti. She can’t bring
her pet bluebird Snowball,
that chirps like Pikachu
in the mornings. She’ll miss
the haggis on Burn’s Night
and Irn Bru the colour of oranges.
She can’t pack the hailstones
from a cold February morning,
or any of the weather, the salty smell
of sea like fresh fish, or the way
the waves crash against the rocks.
She wishes she could take the smell
of black pudding from her father’s
Sunday morning fry-up.
She can take a thistle, but not
her whole garden; she brings
the seeds instead.