It is the remembering

It is the remembering

Recollections that flounder

In the overflow of bygones

A bubbling of memories

A tumble of nostalgia

Boiling water on a coal fire

In the inglenook

A pan full of underwear

Bleached white

A kettle for the tea

Suet pudding

Made with sultanas

Wrapped in muslin

Three hours to cook

Served with custard

Worth the wait Grandma said

For too long now

She has been dead

I miss the jelly babies in her handbag

Kissed her forehead

When she lay in bed

I thought she might wake up

But she was too cold

Now it is me

I am old

The best Grandad ever

So I am told

Before we met

There was something missing

Until you were gone

But it is still there, somewhere

In the remembering

Putting up the Christmas tree

Was magical perfection

Will the lights work

Yes or no

Walking together in the snow

Holding hands

Under moonlight

When I was a boy

We camped out in a field

Behind our houses

The street gang

Telling scary stories

Afraid of shadows

Colder than it needed to be

We never had a sleeping bag

Cooked potatoes in the ashes

Of a campfire

Skin and all

Made a stew out of scrumped vegetables

Climbed trees

The farmer fired a gun

We brought in the harvest

For slave wages

We were country folk, after all

Played football

From morning till night

Some games ended

In a fight

With boys from the next street

I lost a tooth that way

Kicked a ball through a window

It was my fault

Dad made me pay

It was pocket money

In one hand and out of the other

He thought it was a joke

But it wasn’t funny

Summer days were not all sunny

It is in the remembering

It defines you.