My Grandmother

Couldn’t get enough tea although
She could barely stand still long enough
To let the kettle boil. Family legend
Claims a trace of gypsy blood and Irish temper
To explain why she could be there

And gone before the dust had settled
Or the jam tarts she baked had chance to set.
Wanderlust was her dynamo.
Down to London in the 1920’s -
Tales of posh hotel work that lasted

Five minutes before she was off.
ARP in the forties, licensed to roam and clear the streets.
In later years the old folk’s club corralled
For trips to Bridlington and Skeg. She bought
A house there for about a week

Before that became another avenue explored
And ticked off some inner life map.
I see her legacy as a mound of battered shoes,
Smoothed stones and memories not considered
Long enough to stay put, and a mantelpiece of blurred photos.