Tuesday, 11 September 2012


53 Wordsworth st- Nan

 Rose bordered path,

Leads steeply up towards cream weatherboard,

Californian bungalow.

Blue and purple hydrangeas

In full bloom.

Nan leans over the balcony,

Beckons us in with her smile.

We are young children.

Overnight bags unpacked,

Out back in mum’s old bedroom,

With the mirror on the wall,

Which made my eyes very green.

Cards at the kitchen table,

Crib, 500, donkey and Nan’s favorite sevens.

Nan peels apple skin into a perfect monkey’s tail.

Macaroni pudding, stewed fruit and custard.

Daytime games of imagination-

Horses with brooms,

Their stables under the house,

Trotting up and down the path,

Galloping across the grass.

Pouring water down the gully trap,

Nan’s hair has been rinsed “True steel”.

Sitting at the kitchen table,

There’s neighborhood gossip,

And talk of bowls games and upcoming events.

Getting ready for bed,

Hitchcock’s “To Catch a Thief” in the evening.

Columbine toffees to greedily unravel and devour,

The toffee sticking hard to our teeth.

Nan’s teeth in a plastic cup on the bathroom sink,

Pink bathroom smells of tea rose powder.

Open and shut the bathroom mirror cupboard,

“Cyclax” lipsticks and many Cyclax beauty products,

Dear great Aunty Molly was their accountant.

Yellow pottery vase I made for Nan,

Fake violets bunched inside,

Resting on Nan’s polished side table.

So proud how Nan displayed my hand made gift.

Nan tucks us in tight,

Wrapped in her leopard print dressing gown,

Hair net pinned down carefully,

Large feet encased in burgundy velvet slippers with bows,

We kiss and hug her goodnight.

 Twenty something-

I take my bags inside 53,

Living on my own now, like Nan.

In the evening we talk at length,

Of boys who broke my heart,

We watch telly together.

Nan remembers days past-

We chat from bedroom to bedroom,

Call out goodnight.

One wall separates Grandmother and grand daughter.

So much love my Nan has given me,

Rob 2009






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