Sitting With Nan.

a boy and his nan in 1963.

You sat with Nan
in the back garden
of her house in London.

Is that a new suit?
She asked, looking
at you closely,
her eyesight poor
even in broad daylight.

Yes, you said,
I bought it
out of my wages,
saved up for it.

Nan nodded her head,
felt the cloth,
ran her hand
over the sleeve.

Had your hair done, too?
Yes, you replied,
brushing your hand
over your short-cropped head,
it’s called a Crew cut,
you said, taking in
Nan’s white hair,
curly and still plentiful.

You look like a blooming Yank,
she said, like they had
over here during the War
with their cigarettes,
cigars and silk stockings
for the girls.

She put her hand
over your hair,
rubbed it gently,
her blue eyes
lighting up,
a smile breaking
into her lips.

You enjoy your life,
she said, make the most
of what you have,
make the best
of each passing day,
because, she said
looking at the sky,
death’ll come
and take you
and all of it away.