Granda’s on the edge of his chair,
he is rarely perched that way,
still has next-door-to nowt to say.
Words seem beyond reach,
until he says, with lips pursed, ‘skilly’.*
The memory of the excuse-for-a meal painful
as many a slap in the Boys’ Home.
Permanent nights give him a death mask;
an invisible haversack is pinned to a bent back
day and night.
Granny makes his bait*, waves him off,
wanting night to be over is their dream.
Dream by Tom Kelly | Sandalwood Rose Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
