#1954
Grandad seldom spoke of war
or war's ways or the senseless
slaughter, but when he did it
was in a hushed voice, the words
handled carefully, as if they like
grenades could explode if handled
bad or carelessly. He talked of
mud and lice and cold and damp
and the slow slog to the front.
In hushed tones as if some secret
he was unfolding, he told of sounds
of shells, cries, blood and smells.
Did you **** the Bosch Granddad?
I asked as little boys do or may.
He looked at the fire where flames
tongued the coals and didn't say.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
Nan stood beside you
on the beach; you could smell
the sea and hear its roar
on the shore.
Grandad stood
on your other side:
that shipwreck out there,
can you see it?
You peered out to sea:
can see something,
you said.
That's the S.S
Richard Montgomery,
Grandad said,
sank in 1944
during the war.
And it's still there?
you said.
Got explosives aboard
too dangerous to move,
Grandad said.
You stared hard,
wishing your young eyes
could bring the shipwreck
closer.
Do you want an ice cream?
Nan said.
That'd be good,
yes please, Nan,
you replied,
your eyes leaving the wreck
to gaze at your nan.
How did it sink?
you asked,
was it sunk
by Germans?
No,
Grandad said,
it ran aground
and broke up,
I believe.
You walked back
up the shore
with Grandad
at your side.
Your nan had gone ahead
to buy ice creams
for you all
at some ice cream stall.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
Gran mostly wore
a full-length
pinafore apron
with a pouch pocket
at the front
where she kept
her matches and cigarettes.
My mother said
not to worry Nan
or ask for things.
I went through the kitchen
into the sitting-room
while my mother stood
and talked with Gran.
Grandad was sitting
in his big armchair
by the fire
breathing heavy
after each puff
of his cigarette.
I sat on a chair
by the door
gazing at him
hunched over
gazing at his slippers.
"How are you Boy?"
He said.
I sat up straight.
"I'm all right Grandad"
I said.
He breathed in deep
like a diver
before he dived.
"Don't get old Boy."
I studied his wheezing
and his hunched back.
I could hear
my mother and Gran talking
from the next room.
The big clock on the shelf
chimed loudly the hour.
Grandad offered me
a humbug sweet
from his cardigan pocket
from a white paper bag.
I stood up
and took a sticky humbug
with my little boy fingers.
That image of Grandad
after all those sixty years
still lingers.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC