Helen Heslop
Grandad
He lay, in a blue dressing gown,
in a box in the big room upstairs.
We were told he was asleep.
Gran had draped black cloths over mirrors.
No-one could see to put on their hats.
Whisky tots, arrayed on gran’s salver,
were held to the light, swigged by uncles
who then lifted grandad, locked in his box
in the dark, like in our cupboard
under the stairs only worse.
We didn’t ride in cars with the rest,
but helped gran’s Mrs Mac set out plates
and eat pickles.
Page(s) 51
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