Granny's Cottage

I am visiting my granny's cottage
Some time after her sad demise,
I hold my breath on the threshold
As her memories flood my mind.
Without going inside I can see
Each room of this tiny cottage:
The front room where she welcomed
Her friends, and even a stray goat.
Her table by the curtained window,
Where she raised her cup of tea
To the rising sun, and to the birch
Whose branches always waved to her.
Her kitchen where she always had
Something delicious only for me,
At least her dainty hand-made cheese.
Her husband's study which remained
Locked even for her darling me,
It was actually a treasured vault
Where the memories of the moments
Which she had shared only with him.
Then her room, her books, her bed,
Where as a child I slept in her arms,
As my mother also may have done,
Reaching for her face with tiny hands,
While drifting away to meet the fairies
On the wings of her magical stories.
And it was there our roles where reversed,
When I had to put her to some sleep,
As she clutched my hand like a child
To find some support while drowning
In the unbearable pain of her sickness,
And it was on that bed I had found her
Sleeping peacefully in the arms of death,
And as per her wish I had prepared for her
From her garden's flowers a clumsy wreath.

© Portia Burton