She glides like Nosferatau. Then presses down on her cane As she sits to clatter plastic. Weaving uneven arms from wool, To keep an ungrateful grandson warm. On Sundays they visit her, She polishes the brass Gets out the chipped China And irons worn doily’s to put on pert cushions. She offers soft biscuits to hardened expressions, ‘How about some Battenburg cake’? ‘Or a nice cup of tea’? ‘Put your feet up and I’ll put on the telly’. She asks her grandchild for a kiss, Then almost begs, She can tell he has grown for she need not bend As she kisses his grimacing lips. Then like her willowy fingers Self doubt reaches out in quivering pitch. ‘I’m such a nuisance so sorry my dears’ ‘It looks like it’s raining you should wait till it clears’ ‘No Mum, I think it’s time we were going’ ‘Oh no son, don’t go’ ‘Oh my Lord now it’s snowing’. ‘There’s a film on side 3’ ‘Or shall we watch this cartoon’? ‘Shall I fetch some more tea’? ‘NO Mum we HAVE to go soon’ ! Her head tilts like a tulip in May. As she stands at the door to wave them away, And there’s a single ticket that rests on the Urn For a dinner and dance at the Rubicon. She smiles as she cries telling her late husband About how tall Billy’s getting.