Lunch hour with Gramps

He stoops above a cheap black pan –
liver, rashers, sputtering onions
sear and char in kitchen smudge.
The radio bumbles The World at One,
birds churr and jar the far side
of the cactiied cock-eyed lean-to.
He plates it up. She bolts it, pecks
his cheek, then quick and careless
back to school. He scrapes the scraps:
his years of banburys and bread,
the Sussex chalk, the village larks,
his steepling tenor fluting clear,
those violets brought to Oxfordshire.


Sally Goldsmith