Imogen is the oldest of our three children at only seven and is a bright, capable little thing who loves animals – she wants to be a vet.
I roll my eyes at that and remind Fionnuala that she will have to get A-stars left, right and centre. Fionnuala just says that’s what she’ll get.
Anyway, a letter came home from school from a wildlife organisation about a poetry competition for children – ‘Nature on Your Doorstep’ – and Imogen was keen to enter. The best poems were to be published in a book and we set about finding a subject. Insects were out because they made Fiadh scream, and rodents because they made Dermot scream, so we settled on birds, which everybody liked.
I assumed that the delicate, little birds that darted about our garden would be Imogen’s muse but it was the jackdaw she focused on.
“I like their eyes; you can’t tell what colour they are.” She was looking at a book about crows we had borrowed from the library.
“They’re grey,” said Fiadh, peering over our shoulder.
“They’re blue,” Imogen asserted.
“They’re turquoise.” I couldn’t help join in and Fionnuala took Fiadh away, shaking her head at me sadly.
Imogen and I were able to continue in peace and we found out some great facts about jackdaws. They are the smallest crow and are known as thieves as they love shiny objects, which they put in their nest.
They roost during winter in large groups and they all squawk and shout before huddling up for a warm night’s sleep. They live to about five years in the wild, but the most mind-blowing thing (to us anyway) was that they mate for life.
“That means that the pair in our garden are married,” Imogen said. “Like you and Mummy. And they have two or three chicks like me, Fiadh and Dermot.”
“Write down all the things you have found out about them on one side of the page, and all the things you feel about them on the other side.” My teaching instincts took over. “Then you can combine the words to create your poem.”
I kissed her fine little head and couldn’t help watch from the door: her hand going ten to the dozen; a hunched-up, tiny, innocent dervish.
I sat down to read her poem after a while. There were too many words, and the sentences were a bit clumsy, but there was a sliver of magic that thrilled me. I sat down and helped her prune it back. We argued as her words disappeared but I told her it was part of the process. “I don’t know what that means, Daddy!”
Eventually there was consensus and ‘Jackdaw Love’ was finished:
Our nest is warm and safe
With a mountain of sticks
And fluff, and paper, and wool.
Our eggs are four but
Our chicks are three; it’s enough.
We cannot talk but we think and
We feel. We are beautiful
As we hunt for grubs.
We cannot talk but I know
Your turquoise eyes will watch us
Every beating moment.
Fiadh said she didn’t understand it, but Fionnuala clapped loudly after Imogen read it out. “Did Daddy help, pet?”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“I love it. It’s so clever because you have got inside the minds of the birds.”
“We can’t let her enter that,” Fionnuala said later. “Every beating moment? From an eight-year-old?”
“I never changed a word, just wriggled them around a bit – and she had the final say.”
I was determined she would enter the competition and a week later, the school called to say she had been selected. The elation we felt was cut short, however, as the parents’ WhatsApp went bananas. Lots of children had entered and it turned out all were getting published.
And the book is available to buy next month, only £29.99.
The price of my vanity, I realised.