We were given a beautiful book of poetry for Christmas. A nature poem for each day of the year. And so began our tradition of “Poem of the Day”. We usually read it before bed, but sometimes I’ll read it to her when she’s on the loo (!), or we’ll revisit a poem when it seems relevant.

The majority of the poems would be considered “too old” for my daughter, as she isn’t yet four. But I don’t think it does her any harm to expose her to more complex language so soon.

She asked me “what is a poem”? I told her it’s a song without music. It’s a way of saying something whilst having fun with words. It’s what is created when someone plays with language, sound, words and form. It’s a way to describe how something feels.

And most days, she’ll ask for poem of the day. And she always tells me afterwards whether she liked it or not. And we talk about why. She likes the ones she can relate to: ones with concrete subjects like animals or weather. She also likes onomatopoeia, assonance and alliteration. (She doesn’t know these words yet, but she will soon.) I’ve been surprised that it’s not all about the rhyming: I’d have thought these would be easiest on her ears, but the fact that it rhymes or doesn’t, won’t necessarily mean that she likes it, or doesn’t. But she’s never ambivalent: even if she can’t explain the reasons for her like or dislike, she is never on the fence.

We were talking this week about when we were going to have dinner, and when it would be time for bed. I mentioned that it was getting dark outside.

“When it’s nighttime, the Sun is gone. And when it’s morning, the Sun is out. That’s my poem about the Sun, mummy.” She said.

I immediately scrabbled to write it down so that I would remember it. And to record it for her to look back on.

I’m thrilled that she’s playing with language in this way, and consciously recognised that she was doing so. And labelled it poetry.

She’s been telling a lot of stories of late. Making up little stories about characters with whom she is familiar. And I’m delighted when she adds in a superfluous detail (where a character lives, how they feel etc) because it shows me that all the stories we’ve shared, all the books she’s been read countless times, have all gone in. Her storytelling isn’t just a straight line journey from beginning to end: it meanders to include character details, motivations, settings etc. I love that she’s considering these details. Not only because it makes her stories more interesting, but because of what it tells me about her own character.

Life in and of itself is a story, with a beginning and end, but the middle is largely down to us to decide. I want my daughter to enjoy the journey: to meander and explore and discover. To focus on the detail that fascinates her. Our destinations are ultimately all the same, and it is only our journey over which we have any control.

Long may she continue to revel in the minutiae. Long may she continue to play with words and speak in poetry. Seeing the world through her eyes is refreshing.

We’re fortunate enough to live on the coast, and during the recent storms, took a walk along the cliff top and watched the waves crashing into the shore. The sea was far higher than usual and had completely covered the beach. The waves rolled into the promenade, walls and beach huts and sent up huge sprays. We decided they were like fireworks: the noise of the crash and the fans of spray made for a spectacular show. I reminded her that one of our recent poems had talked about the “white horses” as the crests of the waves, and pointed them out to her. For the first time, I could see it. As the waves broke and the spray flew through the air I could see the horses.

We returned home. Red cheeked and salty with sea spray. And I read her the poem again with the memory of the waves fresh in our minds.