It is summer. You take me on a tour of the garden Although it looks the same to me. You show me the work that's been done Look there, you say and point To the netted berries. You know the names of all the plants. The figs are ripe and fragrant You tell me to take as many as I like.
You offer sherry and we sit outside At the hexagonal table in wooden chairs With the cushion covers your mother made. There are salted biscuits in a thick glass bowl And olives in another. We watch the late afternoon sun sink and admire the view. Hills and sky.
At night I fall asleep in the bed in which I grew up. It smells of dust and clean linen. The pillow is squashy. I have traced the lines of all the furniture in the room with my fingers more times than I can count. When I fall asleep I sleep the night through- I always do when I'm at your house.
You are awake before me in the morning. The kettle is still warm to touch. You have put cereal on the wooden Sideboard, fruit, jam and butter On the table. My place is set. What would you like to do today? You ask.
Grandmother, I would like to spend the day at your side To pick plums and crab-apples and stew them on the stovetop. To sit together To see you close your eyes and tilt your face up to the sun. To have you hold my hand in yours I remember when these were so small.
For you to take me on a tour of the garden. To show me the work that has been done. To tell me what you plan to do in the autumn.