Gracie Baby - My Great Great Grandma

 

Her slub skin,

Woven through age,

Potters pensively.

Amongst mole hills,

That puncture her lawn.

Squares of foam,

Obsolete - now sent,

Rest forlorn beside,

Ancient dust clumps,

Whilst clandestine,

Cuckoo’s whimper.

Covetous kiddies,

Her Easter eggs hunts,

The acrid smell in,

December days.

And Douglas

Who killed a bear,

With knifes and fists,

Shuffles on gravel,

Headed for cantankerous,

Parlays with Gracie Baby.

She cannot know of her

Cynosure,

Her ripe importance to me.

Her incognito paint stall.

We called her Gracie Baby,

Because we were young and

Imaginative.

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