Along the entry
he would come caterwauling,
striking bin-lids with his stick,
through the backyard
knocking over milk bottles.
Up the wooden stair, rolling
like a tar,
to lifeboat-bed and disapproval:
his salty, mermaid wife
growling like an ocean.
On Sunday mornings there,
we children crouched, like mice,
digesting toast and catechisms,
as grandma stepped,
stiff-backed, around him.
He would be still as stone, his bowl
of porridge cooling.
Richard Fleming
Image : Pixabay - aamiraimer
