Before our births, void of choice, we became part of the story,
During our lives, with a choice, we can't escape the story,
After death, abandoned choice, the story continues to seep.
- Andrew Mansell

Month: April 2011

Great Gran’s Tiny Apartment


photo by Dave Davies

Concrete chills the warmth of blood,
Power’s gone from room of pale,
Crunched envelopes, letterbox flood,
Survival noted in her life of mail.
My parents used to force us here,
Mothballs, no second floor outlet,
Without craving, our hunger fear,
Pecking at every burnt pikelet.
Her holey undies swayed the bar,
Jabbed my sister’s endless giggle,
Mum screeched, ‘You go too far!’
Below the crust our grins did wiggle.
Bold writing, has all been sold?
Mould clings to her belongings,
I carry out the frying pan cold,
Stored in our being, memory rings.
Andrew Mansell, April 2011.
*My daughters had their first go at cooking pikelets. Once they had a batch cooked, they layered jam and ice-cream on the pikelets and concentrated on eating, leaving the next batch of pikelets in the frying pan too long and burning them. Come to think of it, I did the same. The smell of burnt pikelets triggered my memory of Great Gran and her tiny apartment, hence the poem.