Poetry

19 Mary Street

by

Lynne S Burns

I see her everyday, standing by a wooden gate.
Captured in pastel water colours, framed in pine,
the only family member, I ever tried to paint.
Small and neat, with her old dog Jock, sitting at her feet.
She smiles down at me, from the garden of 19 Mary Street.
I am thinking a lot these days of Grandma Ivy May,
and of that Victorian, end-terrace villa, of my childhood hours.
My memories, unlike the flowers of that well-kept garden,
keep unfolding, never fading…

A hot-house lean-to enclosed the green back door -
another world. Pungent cat-pee smell of tomato vines,
their small green fruits entwined, soon to ripen cherry red.
I can hardly breathe this earthy air, humid and languid.
In the kitchen beyond, pouring the tea, Grandma greets me.
A small blue feather clings to her hair, Ricky must have left it there.
I kiss her cheek, she smells of soap and bird seed.
‘Shush,’ she whispers. ‘You go an’ ‘ave a read, Grandad’s fast asleep.’

Grandad dozes in the corner and nestling there on his shoulder,
Ricky, all coy, chirps at me (sotto voce),‘Who’s a pretty boy then?’
Old Jock opening one gimlet eye resumes his nap by the fire.
Heavy in my lap, The Children’s Wonder Book
takes me on magical journeys to Treasure Island and Liliput.
The ticking clock on the sideboard accompanies Grandad’s snores.
The Lincolnshire Road Car Bus Company, rumbles past the front door.
In the kitchen humming Cherry Ripe, Grandma sets the table.

‘Jim,’ she calls. ‘Stir yer sen, it’s time to go an’ fetch the dinner.’
Ricky stretches a spindly leg and nibbles on Grandad’s ear.
He wakes, pipe clamped in a toothless smile, ‘Na then lass.’
(His false teeth I know, are upstairs, steeping in Steradent.
Kept on the bathroom window sill, they grin at me
disconcertingly, from the bottom of a glass.)
The fire crackles in the grate, the coal fizzles, moisture drizzles
in the heat as Grandad stands and spits. Jock grunts and stirs.

After fish, chips and mushy peas, we watch the wrestling on T.V.
My head on Grandma’s knee, she twitching constantly, the bout begins.
Pallo and McManus, seconds away, round one - Ding, Ding! She shouts:
‘Pummel im!’ ‘Yer dirty bugger! Did yer see that?’ The bell rings.
Rolling her eyes. ‘That Ref’s blind.’ Huffs and sighs. ‘Give ‘im the sack’.
‘It’s enough to mek me stand on me ‘ead and shit down me back!’
Billowing pipe smoke like a steam train, Grandad winks at me.
I giggle - helplessly.