HOW often Poem of the Day puts one in mind of relatives or friends (Poem of the Day: Sparrow, The Herald, November 13). I knew two “sparrows” when I was young; my grandparents. The English grandmother, orphaned as a young child, was made to sell fish from a barrow; she was often cold and hungry. She survived and grew up into a lively soul, definitely a "proletarian sparrow”, but who loved a flutter on the horses, parties and quick flits over to the Isle of Man for a weekend. Her nest was often untidy.

The Welsh grandfather had to leave school at nine and go down the pit in North Wales. He lost his first wife and four children from consumption, then married again and my father was one of his second family. Granddad (Taid) with his deep religious belief, survived a pit accident and made it usefully through life whilst often performing little dances for my sister and I. Very much a chirpy sparrow, and a dab hand at drawing elephants. His nest was beautifully kept – by his wife.

These two very ordinary “sparrows”, although they rarely met, flitted through my life until each died aged 84. How acute was Norman MacCaig’s observation of the little bird that survived in spite of, or maybe because of, adversity.

Thank you, Lesley Duncan, for another good choice.

Thelma Edwards,

Old Comrades Hall,

Hume, Kelso.