Sweets
One thing leads to another
All expressions of affection
locked in his throat, he'd look for things to give,
offer a Blenheim Orange fresh from the tree,
then hesitate, wanting to pick the best,
and still all day
grieve for the day before's lost chances.
- You should have asked, he'd say.
He liked to see the neighbour's jackdaw tumble in
through summer windows, curl its black toes
around the wrought-iron bed-frame,
swaying its blue-black sheen of feathers
over the carved oak coffer where
secret beneath an iron-clasped lid his shroud
waited its burial.
We visit rarely. A bag of sweets for each
and Granny's arm streaks out and grabs,
twists the end tight and pokes it
underneath her thigh,
then sits defiant as a naughty child
her watchful eyes moving right-left inside
their static sockets.
But Grandad's eyes turn bright. - Take one,
he urges, offering his opened bag around. Take!
Moving too close to Granny
she can't help but snatch.
- Those are my sweets you're making free with!
- And whose are these?
Indignant as a hen hiding its eggs, pretending
it has never laid, she scrabbles round inside, picks out
the biggest. Cheeks bulged
she makes a token thrust towards everyone
then stuffs them back, sits straight
and reassumes her look of injured piety,
guarding what's hers, just as she wears her purse
inside her bodice, next to her heart.
locked in his throat, he'd look for things to give,
offer a Blenheim Orange fresh from the tree,
then hesitate, wanting to pick the best,
and still all day
grieve for the day before's lost chances.
- You should have asked, he'd say.
He liked to see the neighbour's jackdaw tumble in
through summer windows, curl its black toes
around the wrought-iron bed-frame,
swaying its blue-black sheen of feathers
over the carved oak coffer where
secret beneath an iron-clasped lid his shroud
waited its burial.
We visit rarely. A bag of sweets for each
and Granny's arm streaks out and grabs,
twists the end tight and pokes it
underneath her thigh,
then sits defiant as a naughty child
her watchful eyes moving right-left inside
their static sockets.
But Grandad's eyes turn bright. - Take one,
he urges, offering his opened bag around. Take!
Moving too close to Granny
she can't help but snatch.
- Those are my sweets you're making free with!
- And whose are these?
Indignant as a hen hiding its eggs, pretending
it has never laid, she scrabbles round inside, picks out
the biggest. Cheeks bulged
she makes a token thrust towards everyone
then stuffs them back, sits straight
and reassumes her look of injured piety,
guarding what's hers, just as she wears her purse
inside her bodice, next to her heart.
Pat Earnshaw's pamphlet, The Golden Hinde, was published by Redbeck Press in 2002. She has recently completed an autobiographical collection of poems, funded by an Arts Council grant.
Page(s) 40
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