We talk about her
Though we know she is only in the next room.
She is trying not to be rude and eavesdrop
But some of the names we mention
Sound so familiar
And the hymn, the melody, almost like a waltz
Wasn't that one of her favourites?
She tries to join in with a voice
Still frail and small
Until she realises she is singing on her own.
The music has stopped
And we have moved outside
To look at the flowers.

It's hard for me to remember much
She seemed old even then.
But I will never forget the ritualistic
Saturday afternoon visits.
When all my friends were out playing
We were dragged off, complaining madly,
To the big house at the end of the road.
I remember some of the rooms were never used
And the furniture in them
Was covered in white sheets.
As soon as we arrived we were led away
From those closed doors,
Down a flight of steep cellar steps
To choose our lemonade.
Flavours mattered little,
Bright colours, red, green or yellow
Were the only things that caught our eye
And we would emerge triumphant
Each with a glass that sparkled and fizzed.

The garden was huge with rows of apple trees
And a maize of trellised pathways.
There were mysterious sheds with doors long overgrown
And we only dared peep in
Through dusty fingerprinted windows
At workbenches and gas masks.
Then she would tell us her secret
And lead us quietly towards the Laburnum
Where at head night, if we parted the leaves
A thrush had nested, was feeding her young.
And I remember the greenhouse
With it's giant water **** and wonderful smell of tomatoes
And that it was the perfect place to hide
On long summer evenings
When we didn't want to go home.