An old teapot

An old teapot

Sat on top of the dresser

Stuffed with cash

So she said

From her bed in the corner

At least, that is what I remember

Of Grandma

A head full of myth and taboo

The grime of life

Rimed to her skin

From too much grovelling

At people's doorstep

Whitewashing

Working for pennies

Fingernails black and broken

From the dirt in her garden

A patchwork of vegetables

And herbs.

Some to eat,

Some to cheat the ravages of time

A hot poultice

To take the pain away

She never saw a doctor

Never saw the need

They killed Grandad with

Bloodletting

Apparently

Although to my mind

They stopped that practice

In the nineteenth century

It was the cave-in

At the coal face

That did for him

But she had her own story

More bloody than gory

Full of derring-do and glory

The way she told it

He was a hero

Who gave his life

And saved his men

She never missed

An anniversary

Took us all along with her

To stand at the grave,

We stood, she prayed.

I remember her pain

Every time she got up

She cursed the doorstep

Of number four

The pit manager’s door,

Hands raw

From scrubbing and cleaning

Her eyes, rimmed with tears

Or so it seemed to me.

She was a hoarder

Of stories

She smelled of home

Apple pie and ginger wine

Every penny saved

Shoved into that old teapot

For a rainy day

It must have rained a lot

As she was always

Divvying it out

To this person or to that

With change left over

To give us kids a threepenny piece

For our

Money box

Every Sunday.