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

The constant hum of bees provides a backdrop,
interspersed with birdsong,
and, from inside the house,
the tinkle of the teapot and the cups.
Grandma, dormouse brown, scurries
in her cotton frock and apron,
buttering the loaf,
carving thin slices to lay on plates with ham.
The light that falls upon the table
is butter yellow, too
coming in shafts through the leaded panes,
joining the sunlight from the open door.

In spring, there are hyancinths,
filling the room with their joyous scent,
white and pink and purple.

In the quiet, brown light of the far room,
Granddad sits, hands clasped
around his cigarette,
the fire burning in the grate,
even in summer.
Smiling, always, he sips black tea
from a tin mug,
once white, still with a chipped blue rim.
He stirs the fire with the poker,
contented.

And out in the garden,
beyond the sepia prints
and the old, hardbacked settle,
past the pantry
and the downstairs bathroom,
out in the garden there are hollyhocks,
swathes of hollyhocks,
bursting up against the walls.
There is the smell of summer,
and everywhere, colour -
sunlit pinks and lemons, lilacs, whites...
and the long grass in the field below,
wonderful to plough through.

The gargoyle at the corner laughs -
And I dash back
to the safety of the house,
to hear the hum of voices
with the bees,
and reassuring teatime sounds I love.

And we sit in the shafts of light,
and Granddad stirs the fire,
and Grandma says “Eeeh, Bob,”
and Granddad says “Eeeh, Gwennie,”
and I sip my tea.