Nans house

I see the slugs have returned to die
At the sacred salting ground
And the ants, it seems
Have not yet learned
From the boiling water hell
Their ancestors endured

Lavender fragrance wafts
Nauseating, from planted seeds outgrown
Body masseurs would retch
At the undiluted perfume stench

I see the paint is peeling
Claret liquid seeping
Half drip-dried
Down the cloned council door

I am greeted
As I enter the splinter inducing back gate
The washing line
Sagging from two great creamy white bed linens
I am reminded of a giant's fat, swaying bottom
As the cottons ripple against the breeze

Chip fat and margarine hang heavy in the kitchen air
Filming my eyes
The oily smog coats hair shaft
Forehead and rosy cheek
Born from frazzling potato slices
And aborted, yellowed messy blobs
Smashed free from egg shelled wombs

There she is, my Nan
In a fading armchair, amidst grey hovering screen
As a park drive cigarette
Protrudes from creased, imitation tooth lips
The dust mites dance in frenzy
Born from ancient carpet offerings

Above blackened 40's fireplace
Familiar profiles stare from aged picture frames
Walls constructed before the war deaths
Gasp, retching for air

The stair groans, beneath my youthful footfalls
Ghosts of the past
Whisper, tickling my ears
Grandad, Auntie, childish squabbling

War heroes
My Nan
My Grandad
Stare, youthful in handsome uniformed poses
Movie-type postures mismatched
Against frequently decorated peeling walls

Looking at the shrivelled being
Prune faced, belying previous beauty
Abandoned dreams, inevitable future
This is where I came from
And one day, these worn shoes I will fill