Nan's Handbag

 

Was an open house,

inviting little hands and little eyes.

Adjusting to the darkness and its source

a nose full of her Barley Sugars - atomised.

The hiding place of Crawfords and Peak Freans,

the studded Lincoln, sugar crusted Nice.

A leather barrel rolled in from a dream

A sack of joy where all were free to feast.

 

Handkerchiefs that fragranced us with safety.

the blunt, friendly ends of knitting needles.

A cotton reel, a British Rail diary.

The scent of warm milk before it curdles.

Far too heavy to carry in any weather,

Grandad was always threatening a trolley.

But somehow, Nan and that handbag

with their reassuring bulk,

held us all together.

 

Marcus Parnell