new poem

Grandmothers

This one was particular:

chose black leather, lippy for trips

to Exeter, wore Kirby grips in her hair.

At breakfast she ate porridge

from a gleaming dish, with swirls of cream

and demerera dimpling the surface.

Etched juice glasses, thin as petals,

radiated pulp and crush..

Please picture her

in a navy Guernsey,

her purposeful gait as she moved uphill,

(windfalls pocketed for the ponies) -

the confluence of cells and chance

that seeds our childhood miracles -

for the song of her is singing still

weaving close the decades,

showing us the liberty of being.