Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

He's been with me a while, now -
my great-great grandfather, the clog maker.
He means to comfort me. Tells me
how he dragged his family, his Lancashire trade,
to Wales. The mountains tumbling
through tiny windows, not like
the Pennines shrugging a shoulder
in invitation. How his wife wept.

He talks about leather and lasts, holds
up his hands, sinewy, pale,
the thumbs a little squared. They remember,
he says, every shoe, like the wooden
base of the clogs holds every step taken.
A man holds himself and his family
in his hands. His trade is his home.
In Wales, sometimes, even his name.

Only sometimes, I could do without it.
Those bad jokes, about finding my feet,
the way he pffed at my cheap shoes,
the air whistling around the nails
in his mouth. And wages like they are,
these days, he sighs. And forever
making edged remarks
about great great-great grandchildren.

Which is why it was such a relief
when my friend's great grandfather -
the cheese-maker turned up at supper
the other night. Perfectly at home
in her London terrace. Watching us read
the fat content of the brandy butter
with that gallic curl to the lip.
You could tell he thought us daft.

Amiable enough though. Quite touching
in fact, that soft browned hand,
just a stroke from her shoulder.
And not bothering with the white hat
or gloves or sliding metal probes
into the soft core, just breathing it in
with great noisy gulps. Passing it
to the children to eat from the round.

Neither man said much,
one having a mouth full of nails
and the other testing the camembert rind
with his teeth, and anyway there being
something of a language barrier.
Only a look, a smile of recognition
and as we left, a low laugh
that wisped round the room like pipe smoke.