Trip To Grandma's
The lounge smelt of stale cigarettes,
Grey smoke as you walked in,
The kitchen was the parlour,
Front room nobody went in,
An outside toilet down the yard,
You’d not believe today,
They didn’t have a bathroom,
Or a room where kids could play.
Alternate saturdays there,
Grandma led us to the streets,
She’d buy us both a comic,
And if lucky also sweets.
The tv was in black and white,
In corner of the room,
The minute that we walked in there,
We hoped we’d go home soon!
Chicken for our dinner,
With some gravy on our plate,
It never ever varied,
No matter what the date.
And bread and butter pudding,
For our pudding not dessert,
Washed down with ginger beer,
In stone bottles, thrown they’d hurt!
It’s years since I have thought of these,
Trips to my grandma’s home,
Grandad sitting in his vest,
They never had a phone!
Bread unsliced from the bakery,
To have a sandwich too,
And twice a year they came to us,
Cup final, Christmas too,
My granddad died in hospital,
When I was just thirteen,
Still I remember his old tales,
Of places he had been.
And then a few years later,
My grandma followed too,
She spoke to me in hospital,
About things I should do.
A grandma shouldn’t really have,
A favourite, but I,
Know that she chose me as hers,
Yet I never found out why.
And so I am remembering,
Some childhood random things,
Thought nothing of them at the time,
But maybe peace it brings?
So long time gone now, grandma,
And those Saturdays we spent,
Remembered with affection wond’ring,
Where the years all went.
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