Grannyma By Dennis Wild

Grannyma, my father's mother, Lives behind four Salford walls Like a tinned and wrinkled prune Drawing all her will for living Not from God, or man, or Guinness But from ceramic souvenirs And her scrapbook of fluffy kittens She's collected throughout the years. Knocking ninety come next April Grannyma, my father's mother, Cures her aching and her paining With olive oil and black molasses Wears as many woolly jumpers As there are layers to the onion Which she cooks and bakes for supper In her cast iron fireside oven. And now I've left you knitting bed socks For the coming Salford winter Grannyma, my father's mother, I see a hazy, ancient army Of bygone, slow-motion generations Each with tins of black molasses Holding close their goodbye lifetimes Sitting frail behind lace curtains.

Copyright © Dennis Wild 2010

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