The Visit

“We are entering the spider’s web”

My mother muttered

A world of Eynon’s pies, cockles and Welsh cakes

Of strange place names and words

Where a fuss is a palaver

And the cry for a mess that you see is ych-y- fi

The threads hummed as we neared our destination

Not everyone has a telephone you see

Marble doorsteps gleamed, knee imprints fading

Gran drew me close with outstretched arms

Her “lovely boy” , aunts smothering me with wet kisses

Unknown cousins gawping awkwardly

The open door swung endlessly to and fro

Relatives and friends made to come and go

Best China soon exhausted

In the parlour, with furniture shrouded in covers

Each item perfectly placed

For high days and holidays

Grandad took me by my hand, a frail man

And showed me the Anderson shelter which he had built for eight

With railways sleepers, earth and his own sweat

The Guildhall clock stood, lonely sentinel

Unintentional aiming point for German bombers

Keeping time

The runner beans were doing well this year

Spindly threads on weathered canes

Wartime thrift always leaves its mark

He shared a secret, his bayonette from the First World War

Though he never spoke of what he saw

But it is all my father now possesses which was his

Clothes sloshed in a rusting bucket

The mangle stood like an instrument of torture

Through which every item was wrung

A warm stove pulsed heat, assuaging my embarrassment

As she plunged me in the tin bath

Cooling water topped up from a boiled kettle

The buttons on my father’s Air Force Officer uniform gleamed

My brother and I sat awkwardly

As we reported to all who asked, our age.

“I hope that you have your vest under that”, it’s turned cold

Cautioned my Gran to my Dad

And our eyes met.