Tuesday, 12 June 2012

Grandpa’s treasure chest


A lovely poem by Moira Andrew, from Pat Borthwick's recent workshop at Trebah...

Grandpa’s treasure chest

he examines each one
with intimate care
rolling it round
in his big earthy hands
picking prying poking
like a monkey
searching her baby for fleas 
selecting only perfect specimens
polishing each smiling face
with a clean cloth
wrapping it in a twist
of greaseproof paper
and placing it
in an old dressing table drawer

I try to help, This one Grandpa
I say scooping up
a hard greeny-brown apple
its skin rough lustreless
Can you no see, child?
he says pointing out a tiny wormhole
Go and badger your Gran
she hovering in the kitchen doorway
waiting for him to explode
in exasperation – his Russets
are an annual labour of love 
needing total concentration

huffing and puffing
his white moustache
wet with spittle
Grandpa ranks the last apple-parcels
tight as Terracotta Warriors
Gran and I barely breathe
as he performs a last rite
covering the drawer
with gently tucked-in newspapers
before bearing the whole thing
up to the attic
in ceremonial procession
Gran steadying the steps
me drinking in the nutty bittersweet smell
  
                                           Moira Andrew, June 2012    
 

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