My Wee Gran

She sits in her big red armchair, hand touching her left ear

Eyes alert. Swift look at the clock-

It’s not lunchtime- yet.

Up since dawn she stifles a yawn

Ankles crossed- feet twitching slightly

Two clocks tick- only one is wound nightly.

The wireless is on- it’s McGregor again

A daily ritual in number nineteen

Memories flicker into conversation as a man tells of the death of a generation.

She dresses plain- no jewellry to be seen- only her slim wedding band.

She starts to talk using her hand.

Jumper and pinafore- uniform- regulation blue cardigan- well worn

A smile leaps to her lips- more memories into conversation

Two clocks still tick.

Now it’s lunchtime- the ritual is at an end.

Up she gets- wireless switched off- McGregor is finished for today.

It will be on again next day.

The big red armchair stands empty

Into the kitchen my wee gran’s away

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