Poetry Pleases: Grandma Dix
Violet Kendall, with deepest affection, recalls her grandma.
I can still remember my grandma,
Black shining hair, always clean and smoothed,
Not slack, to a bun at the back,
With a kink, where a curler had been.
Not for her all those fancy perfumes.
She exuded the soaps of the day,
White Windsor, so clean,
Fairy, fit for a queen,
And carbolic to keep germs at bay.
She never wore trinkets, she had none,
And was always dressed in black,
A clean apron each day,
Lace on Sunday, teased out to a bow at the back.
She was thin but not gaunt, my grandma,
And as warm as a duckling’s bed.
She relished our childish stories,
Spun with a fantasy thread.
We all went to worship on Sunday,
Three times, to the Chapel of Song,
Where we knelt in respect,
Then studied the text of a sermon
That seemed far too long.
She was fun-- she was strict--
She was sharing,
And always attracted respect.
She had love for each child she was given,
And we all knew how much we were blessed.
When she died, I tried not to grieve much.
She wouldn’t have wished me that pain.
But I think of my grandma so often
And trust I will meet her again.
(Huddersfield University of the Third Age)
