Martha was my grandmother

Martha could never be described in her apocryphal tone

He’s two dead and one asleep he is,

A phrase reserved especially for those

who chose to tarry or bore in her bright life

Life so much better with her pragmatic style of love

Not the fleeting gushing type 

But the kind that makes you feel safe, warm inside

In daily play as children we fell and tumbled 

elbows and knees skinned to her liturgy of

you’ll be alright it’s just a bit of bark off

Crinkle cut beef dripping chips in grease proof paper cones

Plate pies and cakes from an oven that seemed 

forever ever hot, forever giving

Smiles she had them aplenty

smiling eyes for the small pigtail girl with equally small blue case

Pearls of wisdom given with great humour

later in life she bestowed upon 

those who chose to wake her ire

I’m deaf not stupid she’d say, in a monotone style.

Martha do you think you've had enough brandy?

Aye better off and buy some whiskey 

Plaited hair down her spine

Fingers criss cross with a cross criss

hands deft as any spider moving down her back,

gently weaving to a perfect braid

all to be gathered and wound to a flawless bun.

Kindness of being was her stock in trade,

Judicious lore imparted to all who chose to listen.

Thoughts that germinated and grew with the passing of time 

Children only need a roof over their heads with love and warmth 

to make them grow. 

To an empathic sharing of harder things in life to say

You’re better off alone than with the wrong man.

She’d worked hard at the game of life

A pureness of spirit was her golden ticket

If cricket was a game of love

She was laughing to her final crease

Ninety nine and then out 

rings so much better than

One hundred for nought