December 11, 2014

 

 

Her job having plenty

of lows and highs;

like an escape of gas

coming as a surprise,

as she lifted old Sam’s leg

for the very last time,

thinking how grand he had been,

when once in his prime!

 

And the baby’s arrival

when long overdue,

was a joy to behold

and a miracle true.

She laid them out

and brought them in:

The dead and the living

both as clean as a pin.

 

The village folks called her

‘The Hatcher and Dispatcher’.

The dead she didn’t fear

for they could no longer catch her.

and the newly born’s she placed

at a waiting breast,

in the hope mother nature

would do the rest.

 

No better vocation

for this willing lass.

She’d brought in so many

and laid plenty to grass.

But whether in-comers or out-goers

on her they could depend.

Both in life and in death,

she was always their friend.

 

 

December 7, 2014

 

 

You’ve known me

long enough to feel,

my anguish when

a grape I peel.

 

You’ve known me

long enough old lad,

to read my mind and see

I’m sad, not glad.

 

You’ve known me

long enough to know,

when I say yes,

that I mean no.

 

You’ve known me

long enough to guess,

when I say ‘I’m okay’,

I’m really in a mess!

 

 

December 3, 2014

 

 

I was given her ‘5 year Diary’

many decades after she died.

My name appeared quite often;

a tear came to my eye.

 

She wrote about her children;

all five were married then.

Some would visit daily,

and others, now and then.

 

But the thing so overwhelming,

I discovered as I read;

each one she thought of lovingly,

whilst lying in her bed.

 

It was her nightly ritual,

before switching off the light:

Sometimes she’d had ‘a good day’,

whilst other’s, were ‘just alright’.

 

But it was a spooky feeling

to re-live her hourly routine.

Especially on days I’d visited, and

‘hadn’t stayed long’: I felt so mean!

 

What I’d give to roll back time,

and sit with Gran that extra hour,

when I dashed in after school,

and watched her sieving flour.

 

And see Gramps in his armchair,

taking tobacco from his pouch.

His pipe was his great pleasure,

but had me rising from the couch.

 

As the smell from his old pipe,

would waft over past my nose.

He knew each time I did it,

the reason why I rose!

 

And he knew my exit imminent,

when the smoke caused me to cough.

I’d make up some weak excuse, like,

‘I have to walk the dog – I’m off.

 

After two and a half years in,

Gran’s diary entries all but stopped,

as Gramps went into hospital,

and her writing instinct dropped.

 

The saddest page of the diary

is when she put ‘My lad has gone’.

They’d been together for sixty years;

she had no strength to carry on.

 

She said ‘I’ve never missed his birthday’,

‘and I’m not missing it today’.

And after breakfast, without warning,

she too, peacefully passed away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 23, 2014

 

 

At the country property

auction sale,

I met a man who

looked quite pale.

 

His fortune he had

all but lost;

many heirlooms sold,

much to his cost.

 

At peanut prices,

to a bargain hunter:

An eagle eyed

impulsive punter,

 

without compassion

for those in need:

Each deal nailed down,

at breakneck speed.

 

All memorabilia

from childhood days,

bound for hands of a stranger,

then lost on selling bays.

 

Until the last item

of the day,

when good news about

to come his way.

 

His castle bought

by this same oil tycoon,

with no plans to live there

or to evict him soon.

 

He was told he could stay

completely rent free,

until the time came,

when dead, he be.

 

He was promised that everything

would remain the same,

including the family crest

bearing his grandfathers name.

 

The tycoon’s only stipulation;

the exclusive use of the left wing,

for family and friends

he may occasionally bring.

 

And the promise that the castle,

which was sadly in decline,

would be brought back to life,

retaining it’s ‘resident’ blood line.

 

As no better person was there,

to oversee it’s restoration,

and no better greeter to the public

than this man of reputation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 3, 2014

 

 

To sit around a table

filled her with dread.

She had ancient demons

that hung around in her head.

 

As a child, she was offered the top

off her Mothers boiled egg:

Such poverty witnessed

when she had to beg.

 

And if lucky, the crust from

some newly baked bread,

with a smattering of dripping

before going to bed.

 

The dining table, a place

where bad memory’s lay,

that still lingered on,

until she passed away.

 

 

 

November 1, 2014

 

 

When we were young

and time was free,

you made a

daisy chain for me.

 

And plucked fresh bluebells

from the wood,

dressed in a cape,

with a matching hood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love it when

we read in bed,

and our bodies

intertwine,

into a snugly world

that’s exclusively

yours and mine.

 

I love your arm

across me,

as I go to sleep.

What would I do

without you?

Into the future

I dare not peep.

 

I love it when

we wake up;

it’s you and me

against the clock.

Our time is now,

so let’s enjoy it:

Did you find your

missing sock?

 

 

October 18, 2014

 

 

Out of making the best

of a time of despair,

came riches untold

when raw love left to share.

 

And though some thought boredom

would surely strike;

none of it, they found,

for they were both alike.

 

And managed quite well

their new situation;

adjusting in no time

without any complication,

 

into an easier routine,

where irony caused fun

and things, once important,

disappeared with the sun.

 

Leaving them to focus

on the bones of the matter,

during walks in the park

and a good in-depth chatter.

 

Having no-one to report to

or actions to explain,

was worth every penny

lost down the drain.

 

For in finding freedom to be

who they wanted to be,

turned into a gift,

from life’s ‘giving tree’,

 

And when stripped bare of assets

they then could see light;

thanking god that the clutter

at last, gone from sight.

 

With possessions all slung out,

along with the dust pan;

clearing the way for a future,

that was never in the plan. 

 

 

 

September 30, 2014

 

 

There’s a cottage that will do for you,

that’s become vacant, due to the death,

of elderly spinster Miss Bromsey-Howard,

but when you see it, don’t hold your breath.

 

It’s tucked away at the rear of the pub;

just up the hill, and off to the right.

She never allowed anyone entry,

so prepare yourselves for a mighty fright.

 

The only form of heating you’ll find,

is by way of an ancient cast iron range.

And I advise you to visit in daylight,

as under your feet, will run creatures strange!

 

It’s where American soldiers found shelter,

and survived many a wartime air raid.

And where her mother entertained them lavishly,

whilst Bromsey-Howard was with his brigade!

 

The soldiers supplied ‘smokes’ to the villagers,

and kept the lassies in nylons, so fine.

And some said that Miss Bromsey-Howard,

was born with a yank through her spine!

 

So if you’re looking for a place historical,

and are prepared for many set-backs.

The price should be very agreeable,

if you can live with a good few, wise cracks!

 

 

September 24, 2014

 

 

As dawn approaches and

the morning noises kick in,

and the body awakens

to the clang, of industrial din.

It is good to know that sleep

befell a cluttered mind,

and after hours of restlessness,

peace, was there to find.

 

Another day, another hope,

another flower to see.

Another prayer said quietly,

that free from grief we be.

As onward goes the fight

to heal the scars of time,

where signs now in evidence,

that we are past our prime.

 

Another day, one day at a time,

caught up in the daily grind.

Then a kettle boiling madly;

a pleasure so defined.

A cup of tea, a mug of tea;

the best start to the day.

Followed by the aroma of bacon,

to set us on our way.

 

 

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