Tremor
Fondly dedicated to my Grandparents

I’m five years old,
I want to ring the bell and I’m told
That Granny saw the car from the window,
I see her from afar and rush to get in, though
It’s icy on the drive,
But when you’re five
It’s hard not to get excited when it’s snowing,
And knowing,
That it’s Christmas Day,
And we’re going to Granny and Grandad’s today.

Roull Road, number thirty-nine,
But there’s a fine line
Between a house and a home
And this house had grown
Into something more,
Because behind every door
There was something to explore,
Another hiding place, or familiar face.

I remember my wonderment,
As up I went
To the attic, I stood – static,
Thinking,
This house is three storeys high,
Three storeys high,
Now here are three stories I
Would like to share with you;

Number two

Syrup Rolls

Now it’s a Granny’s entitlement
To feed and feed and feed
Her grandchildren ‘til they burst at the seams,
And it seems that this was my Gran’s aim,
Not to cast any blame,
Content with third helpings
Of home-made mince pie,
Which you’d have to try
To believe,
Or try to conceive
Of some power ranger soup
With warm buttered bread,
Back then I said
That I didn’t like lentil soup,
But call it power ranger soup
And I’m licking the bowl,
But let me get back to the Syrup Rolls.

Okay, I’ve got a sweet tooth,
But this takes the biscuit,
As you whisk it out
Of that green Lyon’s tin,
And grin,
As you slather it into your roll,
With butter this thick,
Your teeth stick
In that golden goodness,
And make a total mess
Of your face and hands,
But Gran’s taught me one basic truth;
A Syrup Roll is good for your soul.

Time for Bed

Story Number three,
This one involves me
And my brother,
They always did, as we hid
Under the cover,
My Granddad telling tales
About two boys named Calum and Euan,
Usually what we were doing
That day,
But somewhere along the way
Things turned sour,
And at this late hour,
When we should be sleeping,
My Granddad is creeping
Us out with Bedtime tales,
And after my Granddad fails
To soothe us to sleep,
Granny would sneak in,
Kiss me on the head,
And tuck me into bed.

But my first story I’d like to entitle:

A Sinking Ship

I’m trying to slip from the grip
Of my mother,
As she tries to smother on
The factor fifteen,
The garden’s pristine,
The most serene, halcyon scene
From my childhood,
The day would
Be etched in my memory, indelibly,
Reminding me,
Of that ship lost at sea.

You see,
My Granddad’s at the barby
Turning sausages to cinders
As my Gran wanders out,
And everyone’s laughing about
Something my brother said,
A familiar thread
In the family tapestry,
And I’m not speaking Calumny,
There’s artistry to his clownery,
And a tremendous capacity
To laugh at himself,
Which is an art in itself



The sun’s getting hotter,
And us kids
Are bent over the pond’s murky water,
I spy with my little eye,
Something beginning with A,
An assortment of Algae,
Cause there’s nothing else to see,
But my Granddad insists,
There’s goldfish in the mist,
We each made a boat,
And sailed them atop
The green film on the pond,
Needless to say they didn’t last long
Before they sunk into the back of beyond
The H.M.S
‘Didn’t stand a chance’,
I stole a stern glance,
As it gurgled its last breath,
And died an honourable death.

It may still be there,
A shipwreck with forgotten treasure
Of two-pence pieces,
And each, is
a wish we cast,
In times now passed,
Some come true,
And some never surfaced,
What’s important is
We wished them with purpose,
And they tremor,
In our hearts,
Forever.