Being I’m the youngest Of generation, mine, Missed out on many memories That have been past, down line. Of six boys in our family The first two, maybe, third, Knew grandmas from both parents Stories just, I heard. Though have TWO recollections With my dear mother’s mum When visiting, at age of three Sh’enjoyed when we did come. She lived with mum’s young sister, The last born of that clan, I do recall me pulling at The skin of wrinkled hand, And as I was-a-playing With all that aged loose skin I had a thought, which seemed profound, Now where do I begin? I came and stood beside her, She held her hand, outstretched, As I was pulling at the skin, In my mind, this is etched. “Gran lives with youngest daughter, In my clan, I’m the last, So I will have to do the same” My role, it had been cast. Many years, then, later, Dad passed, leaving just mum, The role played out as I’d foreseen Mum's carer, I’d become .
Poetry I have composed throughout the years. Some specifically for people, others for printing in anthologies