Westbrook reflects on love and family.
I often think about the tales I heard of Granny Clarke.
Though all at second-hand, they bring me comfort still:
Bacon from the flitch and water from the well,
Behind the house, the railway line,
In front, the waiting figure at the gate.
I can only guess at other things they knew:
Her voice, her gait, her smile, her way
To make or take a joke or tell a story,
Whether, beneath the warmth, some sadness lay.
She was my Mother’s Nan, and my Nan’s Mum,
They loved her and I loved them.
I must be going soon. Wrap up
Those memories of Granny Clarke:
Though they belong to others, more than they do to me,
There’s no-one else that wants them now.
So pack them for me carefully,
And I will take them with me.