Summer Holidays In Grannies
Summer Holidays In Grannies
I remember the hives of summer
down in grannies place
and June's illusions bouncing on the lane
Unformed people floating on hot black air
There at the bottom of the Tournant Road
by the gap overlooking the glen
I would press myself against the dry stone wall
to look at a thousand beautiful things,
or rock like a pendulum by gripping barbed wire
Its wooden posts, ghosts, after forty winters
a bright sun to burn forehead and forearms.
Later, those arms will stick to the oilcloth of her table
but then I'll be listening to conversations
Words to the rhythm of a dying wall clock
as moths tap unheeded on her kitchen window
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