The painting was to be a surprise,

a present for my often-absent father.

Instructed not to tell a soul, I sat

for the artist: five Saturdays

from two until five. While my friends

played tennis, rode bikes, had fun

I was stuck inside, staring out.

Told to focus my eyes on something

all I could see was a lamppost.

So I stared at that. If I was lucky

a blackbird landed on a wire

or chased a sparrow from its perch.

The portrait won an award:

my upper self trapped in a gold frame

on page 5 of The Examiner.

The judges wrote about the artist

Who has captured so well

a child lost in thought

when, if truth be told, I was longing

for five o’clock. Has anyone

in the history of civilisation

looked this long at a lamppost?