Sunday streets deserted
Terraces row upon row
Sleeping, dusty, littered
Bare earth scattered with bricks
Fragments of glass glitter
Across bombed and broken streets
An early morning train and bus
To roast dinner with Granny
But first we run the gauntlet
Of Uncle Tommy’s barking dog
Granny is tiny in her crossover pinny
Brown hair is coiled, barely touched with grey
And scullery bustles with life
She whistles her words, toothless but smiling
You’re lovely and tall no need of boxes to reach high shelves
Roast dinner with school cook Granny
Her potatoes were to die for but not without the gravy
Of caramelised sugar heated In a spoon on the stove
Then up the street to Aunty Nelly’'s
Her tea as weak as dishwater
Coining the phrase Nellied tea
Could you brave the back yard
For the outside lavvy
Bleached with a wooden seat?
Newspaper and spiders hanging by strings
Now into the dusty front parlour
To play the harmonium, where fingers were banging no tune
On the tired cream key board my feet barely touching the peddle
Pressing the red carpet down
Tired now and it’s time to go
A florin tucked secretly in hand
Sad to be leaving the house of kind laughter
Leaving the memories behind
For the bus ride home
Back through the streets
As darkness falls across terraces row upon row
-Lynne Bebb
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