Granny Pearl

I loved Granny Pearl.

She had a warm Aga

on dark wintry nights.

Friday evenings,

leaving demands behind,

we sped to the old farmhouse

hidden in narrow lanes

amongst the Cobb nuts.

‘My darlings’, she’d say

as we entered the kitchen.

It’s red stone flagged floor,

a step into times past,

where we became children once again.

Mandy would sit

on the silver Aga lid,

knees tucked under chin

and heels resting on the strength of the rail,

warming her bottom

and drying out

from the ravishes

of lashing wind and rain.

‘You must be hungry darlings!’

Granny Pearl would say,

as she peeled pizza

from the freezer chest,

or knocked out

a couple of solid fish fillets.

Either made me smile,

for they were wrapped

in packages of tenderness.

Chatting away in her melody

we drifted on warmed kindness;

a love reaching

through the week’s emptying

into mouths that were never full.

And with all the fondness of the fish,

still partially frozen

or the pizza

with or without a polystyrene bottom,

we were satiated

by her loving gentleness

and her welcome kiss.