Susan Grindley
There I am
That’s me in the snap, the photograph,
with Mum, Doris, who looked after me and an old
lady. I don’t know her name.
There’s no-one left who would remember
now. I can’t help thinking of a scent,
or colour, violet or lavender.
I know I loved her.
No clues inside the photograph.
A scented
lace hanky in her old
handbag, Parma Violet cachous, I remember
those, not her name.
And what was the name
of our landlady at Lavender
or was it Lilac Cottage? Remember
the black and white photographs
of the stars who’d stayed there, from the old
music-halls, framed and signed?
The wallpaper, the bathroom suite,
the toilet rolls, anything you could name,
paintwork, curtains and those cold
nylon sheets, all lilac or lavender.
I just wish I’d photographed
some of the things I remember.
Some perfumes, smells you remember
all your life, like the scent
of violets. I went to measure up and photograph
the garden of a man who shall remain name-
less. He sees in different shades of lavender.
He’s going blind, he’s our age, not old.
From when he was two or three years old,
he can remember
lilacs, white lilacs and lavender
in his mother’s garden, loving the scent.
He’s planted lillies with long Latin names,
flame-orange and yellow. Look at the photographs.
Now I’ve gone back to using my old name.
That’s me in the lavender shirt. I’ll send
you the photograph. Remind me.
with Mum, Doris, who looked after me and an old
lady. I don’t know her name.
There’s no-one left who would remember
now. I can’t help thinking of a scent,
or colour, violet or lavender.
I know I loved her.
No clues inside the photograph.
A scented
lace hanky in her old
handbag, Parma Violet cachous, I remember
those, not her name.
And what was the name
of our landlady at Lavender
or was it Lilac Cottage? Remember
the black and white photographs
of the stars who’d stayed there, from the old
music-halls, framed and signed?
The wallpaper, the bathroom suite,
the toilet rolls, anything you could name,
paintwork, curtains and those cold
nylon sheets, all lilac or lavender.
I just wish I’d photographed
some of the things I remember.
Some perfumes, smells you remember
all your life, like the scent
of violets. I went to measure up and photograph
the garden of a man who shall remain name-
less. He sees in different shades of lavender.
He’s going blind, he’s our age, not old.
From when he was two or three years old,
he can remember
lilacs, white lilacs and lavender
in his mother’s garden, loving the scent.
He’s planted lillies with long Latin names,
flame-orange and yellow. Look at the photographs.
Now I’ve gone back to using my old name.
That’s me in the lavender shirt. I’ll send
you the photograph. Remind me.
Susan Grindley is a landscape architect who lives in London. She has had poems published in Poetry News, the online poetry magazine Limelight (www.thepoem.co.uk) and Gobby Deegan's Riposte (Donut Press), for which she wrote the title poem.
Page(s) 31
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