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My Grandma smelt of peppermints. 
Her kitchen of boiling bacon, 
and margarine - it was always steamy 
and 'welcomingly' warm. 

The bathroom, off the kitchen, 
smelt of carbolic soap, and a layer 
of talcum powder dusted the cupboards 
a reminder of its liberal use. 

The garden, with a greenhouse, 
had a glorious array of pinks 
and Sweet Williams - it was always summer: 
no winters here, always sunny, as I recall..... 

The old corrugated air-raid shelter, 
above ground now, was a haven 
for childhood, childish games. 
It smelt of paraffin from the heater. 

My Grandma smelt of peppermints. 
She would lick her hanky and 
wipe my mouth if it was sticky 
from the gingerbread she'd made. 

My Grandma always looked the same, 
never younger, never older:- 
her memory etched in my cerebral 
photo frame as I remember her ........ 

smelling of peppermints, 
fingers deformed with crippling arthritis, 
but smiling, wiping mouths, cooking, 
or sitting in her little garden in a floral dress..... 

She's been gone for thirty years now, 
but still I see her there. 
I see the  tissue filled pockets in her 
'pinny'and the pin-curls in her hair. 

Yes, my Grandma smelt of peppermints.........

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