Sleeping at Grandma's

See see the candle shadows on
a post-war bedroom wall: The bed
has brass knobs and the rickety stand
groans beneath its matching bowl'and jug;
fugitive feathers escape
from the quilt moulding dustily
our bony forms (two each to the foot
and head), and eight hidden feet
play games with the stone bottle
as it rolls, drunkenly, around.

Her beads have mystery: Black jet
glitters with graduated sharpness,
and oh, the satisfaction of endless
crystal facets, and lustred pearls
which peel to opalescent milk.
More booty is to be found
in damp and murky draws - a card
wound round with fringing,
and wrapped in dense tissue,
a cloud of parachute silk.

All her photographs are sepia
and solemn: Their subjects have
been prepared with ritualistic
care; the clothes they wear
might be fancy dress except
for a dignity of bearing.
Uncle Ernest is an elusive
sort of man, but here he is
trapped in brief intensity
for at least a lifetime.

The candle gutters and the wind
whines outside in slow, sly,
persecution. This house is old:
its attic and its cellars
and its walls are full of secrets.
The iron bed is now a prison
until daylight brings release,
so we huddle down for reassurance.
- Our grandmother is deaf,
and will not even hear us if we cry.

Rosemary Wildblood