In Praise of My Grandmothers

    (Inspired by a praise-poem by Thomas A. Clarke)

On the one hand

To the ghosts of islands, the Colonsay of corncrakes and white sand

To the rootlessness of exile, the sweet oblivion of the whisky bottle

To all those women incapable of keeping their men

To the wail of babies given away at birth, voices of cousins I’ve never seen

To the sweet tin of my greedy childhood hands

To your independence born of cruelty, your cruelty born of poverty

To the restlessness of the journeyman carpenter, my grandfather who loved you in passing

To the tight-laced heart of your corsets, the blank white paper of your skin

To the self-imposed isolation of your last ghost-filled years

To the sad scrape of a corncrake that reminds me of you.

On the other hand

To the solidity of South London suburbs, the clarity of clean windows

To the bloody practicality of a long line of butchers

To the rootedness of knowing only two homes and fifty nine years of marriage

To the gnarled hands you always held his with

To the pride in your prizes for vegetables, cakes, flowers and jam

To your utter devotion to your grand-daughters, the ache of losing your only son

To the uplift of your sponges

To the wide grin of your dentures removed to relax

To your love of colour, the Green Lady, orange carpet, swirls on the walls

To the generosity of gardens that remind me of you.

Your gifts—rootedness on the left hand I write with

Wandering on the right one I use to wave farewell—

Meet wordlessly as I give thanks for you both

and the eternal circles made by your rings.

Victoria Field