Snippets

28th March 2021

 Snippet memories of my nan.

A few poems

The Range

Scrunched up newspaper in hand,

You rub the top of the range.

Every morning,

You perform this ritual.

A little bit of spit,

Your strong arms working,

Back and forth,

Then, circular movements,

till it shines.

Standing back, you inspect your work,

Your sigh of satisfaction,

Is not just in the job well done,

It says, I’m still here, still alive

You throw the dirty newspaper

Into the oven.

And smile

Messages

You take your old black bag,

One, you’ve had since

 way back in my memory,

One, who’s leather

 is now just unattractive specks,

One, even I would have discarded

long ago - you don’t care.

Into it you put

 your blue tattered purse,

The one which hasn’t shut properly

Since the shooting

 of JF Kennedy.

The one from Marks and Spencer

That mum sent you for Christmas

In 1960.

You head off

to do your messages.

You might buy bacon

At Walter Mahoney’s,

And ask him

about his wife,

you’ll buy the paper

at Ryan’s,

And maybe

some sweets for me.

On spindly legs,

legs that appear too frail to hold

your ample body-

A little ball on sticks-

Face set against the wind,

You waddle up the town.  

 

Bets

We,

Sit at the farmhouse table,

Together,

Pour tea from the old crock pot,

The one with the hairline crack

Down the side.

The Tipperary News,

Spread out across the table,

The horses page,

You,

Biro in hand,

Study form,

Mark your favourites.

On a slip of paper,

You write the winner’s names.

“Pick one” you say to me.

I do.

You do not say,

“That horse has no chance.”

You simply promise

To put a few shillings on,

Just for me.

One day you’ll  teach me

To study form