Flying Ant Day

“It’s flying ant day!” I say to my driving instructor. 

I point to the Hitchcockian sky, 

black with the rabble of gulls. 

“It’s what?” he asks. 

I explain. How does he not know?

“I’d rather you look at the road,” he says. 

I’m thousands of pounds in

and still doubting whether I can do this. 

Maybe it’s because I look at trees and birds

from my lifetime of wandering places. 

I climb out of yet another lesson,

confidence-weary, and go to work. 

I can’t stop thinking that he doesn’t know

about flying ant day. 

I remember coming home from primary school

in my gingham summer dress,

and mum pouring kettles of boiling water on the patio

to get them gone.

Now I’m on my hands and knees weeding a driveway, 

in full sun.

They flit around me.

Better days have come, but worst days have gone.

I look up and my friend walks past. 

She’s fresh off the train from her last day at work

before maternity leave. I say congratulations, shit’s getting real. 

She continues home, laden with bunches of flowers.

She turns back to me, gestures to the sky.

She calls:

“It’s flying ant day!”