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Hilary Tinsley

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Promotion

In the stable, squinting in patchy light,
Grandad cut the sacks,
slurried the jumble of worn-out clothes
and stooped to sort:
wool thrown this way, cotton that,
buttons cut or ripped to rattle
in the tin.

I sat on the ladder, open treads
as thick as railway sleepers, black as coal,
felt wooden pressure on my spine,
waited to lift the piles of wool,
carry them upstairs to store.

I watched bent fingers touch and rub, decide and classify.
Boots planted wide, he reached with rounded back,
swinging arms, half-rose to throw.
I saw his tweedy jacket flap, old trousers now too loose,
the gauntness of his chin.

In the loft we baled the wool: blue cardi’s
matted into felt; grey school hand-knits,
elbows gone, edges frayed; boleros
once of mint or cream, decayed remains
of party time; twin-sets minus pearls.

At the month’s end, my uncle called the wagon for the swag.
The loft door opened; bales were pulleyed down.
The driver guessed my age, correctly, nine,
I reckon you’ll do t’sortin’
now your Grandad’s gone.

 

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