Grumps

A poem in free verse

A knock in three,
I rise for thee,
but, barely see,

through the cigarettes,
which went down for breakfast,

two more worries at the door;
I’ve been dreading this day,
the Grandchildren come to play,

One more second of peace before…

Shrieking! uninvited joy,
through the musty corridors,
and into the high walled garden,
the plants suffer,
where attentions do not tread,

These little mites,
bearing their cuddles and need for comfort,
behind snot and dribble,
unappealing as burnt toast,
I spread myself thinly between,
as to not come across too sweet,
a sugarless spread,
try marmite instead,
on your unsophisticated palates,

Don’t call me Gramps,
best call me Grumps,

Wee devils,
who question my dishevelled manner,
and everything else,
infernal curiosity,
which need be shelved,
yet turn a blind eye,
to the paintings which loom,
as their heirlooms,
in my doom,

In timely strokes,
I poked away,
dabbing and brushing,
as aging hands sway,

Or, to my poems,
which litter the table,
where the ashtray climbs,
as the highlands in winter,
where I spent my youth,
bonnie and in bloom,

the little tykes pounce on my lap,
laddie, and the lassie too,
spirited hair attempting to escape in all directions,
in blonde tuffs,
that grew,
as kicked up lawn,
and flap as dying canaries,

– I do mind if you mine my beard,
not that you asked,
but leave anything which you might find,
for its mine,
crumbs and other oddities,
all things weird,
drops of ash,
a hidden rash,
stash of cash,
its mine –

Whilst the ashen mounds,
are beaten from their crystal cut bounds,
to float down again,
as snow on rolling hillside,
where I used to glide,
on planks,
in the Cairngorms flanks,

I thank you,
for that momentary reminisce,
a time of bliss,
where my dear lady lives,
behind the glass,
of the café,
I pushed scran down the pipe,
As she’d unload rounds of banter,
into my ready hide, tough as leather,
But, already sore from the Scottish ice,
we warmed our fingers,
as we blether,
around tea brewed black,
in porcelain,
not paper,

like it used to be served,
when things were right,

there’s not a night,
I don’t rest my hand,
on your pillow,
to a hollow,
as in my heart,
and trace the dents your body followed,

not a day goes by,
I don’t wipe my eyes,
of your presence,

aye,
I miss you so,
I wish you dinnae go,
but, I also miss my brew,
and that’s one thing I can change,

just another tea,
and a cigarette,
away fae you.

Poem by © Darius the Mate

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