Between bath-towels and clean sheets

[tectak]

Hey all, thought I would stop beating around the bush and jump straight into the fire. Very glad to be here and hopefully you'll feel the same way too. Johnny
Hi 20hami,
I come late to this but have followed its progress  I have formed some opinions, as you would expect First of all, by your own critique, you have a rambling habit. I do not think that this is insurmountable because it is always possible to cut a piece of wood shorter and it will still.be wood...cutting it longer is not so easy. Stretching the metaphor...measure twice, cut once. The begged question...why do you ramble in the first place? Irish is neither excuse nor reason. You do not so much lack discipline as misinterpret what it means. OK..what is the old fool on about? Well, knowing your tendencies you have decided to just go along with yourself and now believe that this is what you have decided to do, works...and no other way will work. You have a whole cartload of well observed, fine detail. You can think inside your characters and to a degree, you can make your reader empathetic...so what's not to like? I will tell you...opinion coming. You write stories and with no rhyme nor reason, you cut up the work with no regard for intonation...flow, in another universe...or poetic endeavour.  Of course, if the wish to write in poetic form exceeds the desire to tell a fine story you could easily become faux-poetic. Not good, either. So it is a balance, a skill if you like. No one can tell you how to write poetry BUT for me, that word "skill" is indisputably a part, at the very least, of writing poetry. So purely as an experiment, discipline yourself in your work so as to avoid, for example..."When granny died I was...."Try, instead .

 I was fifteen when granny died; she was not quite sixty.
Thirteen years back, sometime in May, I can't recall the date or day,
but if you asked her, ma would know.

Guess I couldn't bear to see her, crumpled up like someone sick;
she'd been a great woman, a person of presence  up until then.
Instead we played cricket all day.

I am NOT suggesting that this is "better" than what you have written...all I am trying to do is to show you an alternative that reads as if it was disciplined rather than "rambling"
Revision#3

Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
that was thirteen years ago come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma she’d know.
Guess I couldn’t bear to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a woman of great presence until then.

Instead, we played cricket that day, me and my pals
while Ma sat with Da and Granda and her sister, my Aunt. Yes...that would be an Aunt. I accept that the narrative IS from the character, but I cannot help thinking that it is you and you don't know how to hide.
Counting down the seconds in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices, ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. A finely felt and pointed observation but just verging on inconsistency with the narrator I thought I knew. I accept the time difference betwixt recall and reiteration but the erudite "...ignorant of the fact..." sits a little awkwardly with the illiteracy of "...me and my pals (played cricket).." Picky? Sure...but measure twice.
 
Auntie didn’t like Ma and blamed her for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda sat praying. To who?
At this point who cared? So don't punctuate...or do punctuate...or don't punctuate...discipline.

“WHO? GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME FROM RIGHT NOW?” Read it....go on, go on, go on, go on....no need for shouty capitals, this isn't facebook

as her hand in his grew colder to the touch,
although she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav... Read it. Discipline

I can’t say why this has come to mind  
thirteen years on come May, but I’d wager
eating pears is what does it.

No longer picked from Granny’s tree
but still ripened in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels and clean sheets. ...and yet I STILL like it.






R[i]evision#2[/i]

Between bath-towels and clean sheets


When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.

Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters, pears picked from Granny’s tree
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while

Ma sat with Da and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. 
 
Auntie didn’t like Ma
and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.

While Da fetched cups of tea
cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.

To who?
At this point who cared?

“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”

as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...

I can’t say why this
has come to mind  
thirteen years on
come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.

No longer picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.





Revision#1

Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.

Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters pears picked from Granny’s tree,
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while

Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent—

Granny’s death played
out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. 
 
Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.

While Da
fetched cups of tea
cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.

To who?
At this point who cared?

“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”

as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...

I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.

No longer
picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.




Original
Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died
I was fifteen she almost sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May. It was a Tuesday or maybe
a Wednesday, if you’d ask my ma
she’d know. I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is Christians
do when they’re just about
to return to God?
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; sweat an excuse
for tears and when we
became too tired we sat down
picnicking on the square
just outside the crease,
whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch consisting of;
ham and cheese sandwiches,
the crusts cut off,
washed down with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and for afters pears
grown on Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent— they came later,
too soon then, the wounds too fresh.
Instead her death was played
out to raised voices,
or at least that’s what I was told,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused Granda
sat praying, to who?
At this point who cared?
The Holy Bible had only brought
them this far and having already
reached bargaining, he would have
sacrificed his faith in this instant
because
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her
up on birthdays and
after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s own tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.

---

Hey all, thought I would stop beating around the bush and jump straight into the fire. Very glad to be here and hopefully you'll feel the same way too. Johnny
Hi 20hami,
I come late to this but have followed its progress  I have formed some opinions, as you would expect First of all, by your own critique, you have a rambling habit. I do not think that this is insurmountable because it is always possible to cut a piece of wood shorter and it will still.be wood...cutting it longer is not so easy. Stretching the metaphor...measure twice, cut once. The begged question...why do you ramble in the first place? Irish is neither excuse nor reason. You do not so much lack discipline as misinterpret what it means. OK..what is the old fool on about? Well, knowing your tendencies you have decided to just go along with yourself and now believe that this is what you have decided to do, works...and no other way will work. You have a whole cartload of well observed, fine detail. You can think inside your characters and to a degree, you can make your reader empathetic...so what's not to like? I will tell you...opinion coming. You write stories and with no rhyme nor reason, you cut up the work with no regard for intonation...flow, in another universe...or poetic endeavour.  Of course, if the wish to write in poetic form exceeds the desire to tell a fine story you could easily become faux-poetic. Not good, either. So it is a balance, a skill if you like. No one can tell you how to write poetry BUT for me, that word "skill" is indisputably a part, at the very least, of writing poetry. So purely as an experiment, discipline yourself in your work so as to avoid, for example..."When granny died I was...."Try, instead .

 I was fifteen when granny died; she was not quite sixty.
Thirteen years back, sometime in May, I can't recall the date or day,
but if you asked her, ma would know.

Guess I couldn't bear to see her, crumpled up like someone sick;
she'd been a great woman, a person of presence  up until then.
Instead we played cricket all day.

I am NOT suggesting that this is "better" than what you have written...all I am trying to do is to show you an alternative that reads as if it was disciplined rather than "rambling"
Revision#3

Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
that was thirteen years ago come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma she’d know.
Guess I couldn’t bear to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a woman of great presence until then.

Instead, we played cricket that day, me and my pals
while Ma sat with Da and Granda and her sister, my Aunt. Yes...that would be an Aunt. I accept that the narrative IS from the character, but I cannot help thinking that it is you and you don't know how to hide.
Counting down the seconds in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices, ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. A finely felt and pointed observation but just verging on inconsistency with the narrator I thought I knew. I accept the time difference betwixt recall and reiteration but the erudite "...ignorant of the fact..." sits a little awkwardly with the illiteracy of "...me and my pals (played cricket).." Picky? Sure...but measure twice.
 
Auntie didn’t like Ma and blamed her for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda sat praying. To who?
At this point who cared? So don't punctuate...or do punctuate...or don't punctuate...discipline.

“WHO? GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME FROM RIGHT NOW?” Read it....go on, go on, go on, go on....no need for shouty capitals, this isn't facebook

as her hand in his grew colder to the touch,
although she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav... Read it. Discipline

I can’t say why this has come to mind  
thirteen years on come May, but I’d wager
eating pears is what does it.

No longer picked from Granny’s tree
but still ripened in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels and clean sheets. ...and yet I STILL like it.






R[i]evision#2[/i]

Between bath-towels and clean sheets


When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.

Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters, pears picked from Granny’s tree
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while

Ma sat with Da and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. 
 
Auntie didn’t like Ma
and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.

While Da fetched cups of tea
cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.

To who?
At this point who cared?

“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”

as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...

I can’t say why this
has come to mind  
thirteen years on
come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.

No longer picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.





Revision#1

Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.

Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters pears picked from Granny’s tree,
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while

Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent—

Granny’s death played
out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. 
 
Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.

While Da
fetched cups of tea
cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.

To who?
At this point who cared?

“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”

as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...

I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.

No longer
picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.




Original
Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died
I was fifteen she almost sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May. It was a Tuesday or maybe
a Wednesday, if you’d ask my ma
she’d know. I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is Christians
do when they’re just about
to return to God?
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; sweat an excuse
for tears and when we
became too tired we sat down
picnicking on the square
just outside the crease,
whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch consisting of;
ham and cheese sandwiches,
the crusts cut off,
washed down with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and for afters pears
grown on Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent— they came later,
too soon then, the wounds too fresh.
Instead her death was played
out to raised voices,
or at least that’s what I was told,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused Granda
sat praying, to who?
At this point who cared?
The Holy Bible had only brought
them this far and having already
reached bargaining, he would have
sacrificed his faith in this instant
because
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her
up on birthdays and
after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s own tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.

---

Hey all, thought I would stop beating around the bush and jump straight into the fire. Very glad to be here and hopefully you'll feel the same way too. Johnny
Hi 20hami,
I come late to this but have followed its progress  I have formed some opinions, as you would expect First of all, by your own critique, you have a rambling habit. I do not think that this is insurmountable because it is always possible to cut a piece of wood shorter and it will still.be wood...cutting it longer is not so easy. Stretching the metaphor...measure twice, cut once. The begged question...why do you ramble in the first place? Irish is neither excuse nor reason. You do not so much lack discipline as misinterpret what it means. OK..what is the old fool on about? Well, knowing your tendencies you have decided to just go along with yourself and now believe that this is what you have decided to do, works...and no other way will work. You have a whole cartload of well observed, fine detail. You can think inside your characters and to a degree, you can make your reader empathetic...so what's not to like? I will tell you...opinion coming. You write stories and with no rhyme nor reason, you cut up the work with no regard for intonation...flow, in another universe...or poetic endeavour.  Of course, if the wish to write in poetic form exceeds the desire to tell a fine story you could easily become faux-poetic. Not good, either. So it is a balance, a skill if you like. No one can tell you how to write poetry BUT for me, that word "skill" is indisputably a part, at the very least, of writing poetry. So purely as an experiment, discipline yourself in your work so as to avoid, for example..."When granny died I was...."Try, instead .

 I was fifteen when granny died; she was not quite sixty.
Thirteen years back, sometime in May, I can't recall the date or day,
but if you asked her, ma would know.

Guess I couldn't bear to see her, crumpled up like someone sick;
she'd been a great woman, a person of presence  up until then.
Instead we played cricket all day.

I am NOT suggesting that this is "better" than what you have written...all I am trying to do is to show you an alternative that reads as if it was disciplined rather than "rambling"
Revision#3

Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
that was thirteen years ago come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma she’d know.
Guess I couldn’t bear to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a woman of great presence until then.

Instead, we played cricket that day, me and my pals
while Ma sat with Da and Granda and her sister, my Aunt. Yes...that would be an Aunt. I accept that the narrative IS from the character, but I cannot help thinking that it is you and you don't know how to hide.
Counting down the seconds in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices, ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. A finely felt and pointed observation but just verging on inconsistency with the narrator I thought I knew. I accept the time difference betwixt recall and reiteration but the erudite "...ignorant of the fact..." sits a little awkwardly with the illiteracy of "...me and my pals (played cricket).." Picky? Sure...but measure twice.
 
Auntie didn’t like Ma and blamed her for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power over the cancer.
While Da fetched cups of tea cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda sat praying. To who?
At this point who cared? So don't punctuate...or do punctuate...or don't punctuate...discipline.

“WHO? GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME FROM RIGHT NOW?” Read it....go on, go on, go on, go on....no need for shouty capitals, this isn't facebook

as her hand in his grew colder to the touch,
although she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav... Read it. Discipline

I can’t say why this has come to mind  
thirteen years on come May, but I’d wager
eating pears is what does it.

No longer picked from Granny’s tree
but still ripened in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels and clean sheets. ...and yet I STILL like it.






R[i]evision#2[/i]

Between bath-towels and clean sheets


When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.

Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters, pears picked from Granny’s tree
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while

Ma sat with Da and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent, Granny’s death
played out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. 
 
Auntie didn’t like Ma
and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.

While Da fetched cups of tea
cold by the time the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.

To who?
At this point who cared?

“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”

as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...

I can’t say why this
has come to mind  
thirteen years on
come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.

No longer picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.





Revision#1

Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died
I was fifteen she not quite sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May.
Not sure of the day, if you’d ask ma
she’d know. Guess I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person, a
woman of great
presence until then.

Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; and when we
became too tired we sat and wolfed down
Ham and cheese sandwiches, with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue.
For afters pears picked from Granny’s tree,
and ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while

Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent—

Granny’s death played
out to raised voices,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. 
 
Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like Ma had some sort of power
over the cancer.

While Da
fetched cups of tea
cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused, Granda
sat praying.

To who?
At this point who cared?

“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”

as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...

I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.

No longer
picked from
Granny’s tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.




Original
Between bath-towels and clean sheets

When granny died
I was fifteen she almost sixty,
so young to go in this day
and age, though that
was almost thirteen years ago
come May. It was a Tuesday or maybe
a Wednesday, if you’d ask my ma
she’d know. I couldn’t bear
to see Granny crumpled up
like a sick person takin Last Rites,
or whatever it is Christians
do when they’re just about
to return to God?
Instead,
we played cricket that day,
me and my pals; sweat an excuse
for tears and when we
became too tired we sat down
picnicking on the square
just outside the crease,
whites with grass stains
on the ass cheeks. Lunch consisting of;
ham and cheese sandwiches,
the crusts cut off,
washed down with cans of
bass shandy, bitter on the tongue
and for afters pears
grown on Granny’s own tree,
ripened in her airing cupboard
between bath towels and
clean sheets, while
Ma sat with Da
and Granda
and her sister, my Aunt.
Counting down the seconds
in tears unspent— they came later,
too soon then, the wounds too fresh.
Instead her death was played
out to raised voices,
or at least that’s what I was told,
ignorant of the fact that the ears
are the last thing to go. Auntie
didn’t like Ma and blamed her
for Granny’s death,
like she had some sort of power
over the cancer. While Da
fetched cups of tea too sweet
and cold by the time
the anger was spent,
and all the while bemused Granda
sat praying, to who?
At this point who cared?
The Holy Bible had only brought
them this far and having already
reached bargaining, he would have
sacrificed his faith in this instant
because
“WHO?
GAVE A FLYING FUCK, WHERE
HER SALVATION CAME
FROM RIGHT NOW?”
as her hand in his grew
colder to the touch, although
she’d always had cold hands,
wishing that’d they could hav...
I can’t say why this
has come to mind almost
thirteen years on come May,
but Ma only ever brings her
up on birthdays and
after that we forget again,
but I’d wager eating pears is
what does it.
No longer
picked from
Granny’s own tree
but still ripened
in the airing cupboard
between bath-towels
and clean sheets.