Grandpa once made
tea in this – his stout silvered
pot with chain.
He’d rise at six;
sit sideways on his bed;
grunt, shuffle on well-trained
leather shoes; stand,
spread stiff, blunt-edged fingers
to hold the wall, then
sway along the room,
the landing, grasp the rail
and somehow climb
downstairs, never falling.
The kitchen found,
But still half-stunned by sleep,
he’d stop, stare, shaken
by the loss of one last
melted dream, and
scratch his brow.
‘Where was I, now?
‘Ah, yes!’
The kettle ready-filled,
he’d concoct a favoured
pitch-dark stew, which
stirred, would smell of tar
and sooty English days
that never saw the light.
At last - an emperor again
enthroned - he’d sniff,
half-smile, raise his sceptred cup,
then through night-parched lips
drain his dominion dry.
© Natalie Wood (18 January 2015)
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