WHERE DO YOU COME FROM GRAN?

Please tell me, “Where do you come from Gran”?

No matter how I look, I cannot see your plan,

You don’t use the computer or mobile phone,

Not even those old videos, did you want or own,

You cook on wood stove, not knowing microwave,

You don´t go to banks, but in piggy box you save,

You wash clothes by hand, never trusting machines,

Saying, “suds, hands & sun, makes everything clean,”

You scrub floors on your knees, just loving the shine,

Saying proudly, “nobody´s floors are as shiny as mine,”

Your dresses turned, & Gramp´s trousers are patched,

All dyed, stitched & mended, yet nothing is matched,

No fast food do you want, as you love everything slow,

Home grown & prepared, upon soft simmering glow,

Sometimes I think Gran, that you belong in a coven,

As I watch you bake bread in your cavernous oven,

“Where do you come from Gran? Please do tell me so”,

“I come from the past child, a place you´ll never know,”