memory

Grains of Memory

Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface                                          like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
                  - and spilled cups of tea

so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
           - all loved

a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
          some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
         - the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions 

if it could talk 
how many stories could it tell 
 - too many to worry about 


next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
              - like the roots of our friendship.

Great Grandad Grandstand

I remember the things I learned
watching Grandstand on Saturday afternoons
at my Great Grandad’s house
like the rules of snooker, darts
and horse racing
how to pick a winning horse out the newspaper (look at the jockey)
sound like Woody the Woodpecker
how to use a mangle to dry out clothes
still steaming from the old washing machine
I found that snuff tobacco was minty
and cured a sniffle
that I preferred my squash diluted
and scotch eggs and ‘black bullets‘
are the food of kings
The most important thing
he taught me and many others
           – was kindness.

Although Grandstand Saturdays came to an end
I still keep what I learnt
sacred in my mind and heart
except the food
I eat that.

Thanks for taking the time to read my poem. A little letter to my Great Grandad who used to have me round when I was a kid.

Take It Easy

Paul