Feathers and Fandangos

Eventually, I knew not to ask
about the frogs – sat on lily-pads
on a scarf she’d knitted for me.
Nor to enquire as to the name
of the man with a moustache
like a walrus, on the wall,
above her fireplace...

Captive, as I’d be, of my gran
on so many occasions, with
a million stories to tell, about
buttons in a box...beads, bangles,
feathers and fandangos.

Six decades on, I sit here,
in the five o’clock light
with my grandson, victim
of the very same...except,
right this second, I’m stumped
for words – lost in his eyes,

the colour of the sea
on a blameless day, reflecting
in a jar, brim-full with things
the two of us saved, this afternoon,
from the gluttonous waves.