journalread

Writings and Witterings

Calling the Years

Leave a comment

Napowrimo small

 

 

They call through the years
childlike yet adult,
they grew,
progressed,
as did we.
Photos tell of times
they may not remember,
but memories form
around saved images.

We argue
about Uncle Cliff,
‘He was dark.’
‘No, he was fair.’
‘He was in shadow there;
‘he diminishes with age.’
‘Aunt Rose smelled of perfume.’
‘She would,
‘she worked in a department store
‘on the cosmetics counter.’
Uncle Cliff’s tweed jacket,
the aroma of Condor,
he died of lung cancer,
had a cleft in his chin
like Craig Douglas,
but Cliff was more handsome.

We went to the little shop
at the top of our road.
Uncle Cliff bought
eight Black Jacks
and Fruit Salad
for an old penny.
Aunt Rose
left a tanner
on the dressing table.
The doctor wouldn’t warm his hands over the oil stove
because he had to go out again
into the snow.
My heart cringed at the cold stethoscope.
You cried.

Polly Stretton © 2020

napowrimo #3

Leave a reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s