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Mothballs and Lavender
There’s a rug on the hearth and a fire in the grate,
Grandma and Grandad, sitting with me to wait.
While the black-leaded oven is cooking our tea
of ‘tatty-ash’ stew, made especially for me.
We’re red hot on our fronts but cold on our backs,
drafts round our feet as the fire draws air back.
But we’re warm in our hearts and as cosy as toast,
for dinner we’d all shared Gran’s tasty beef roast.
I can stay for the weekend and will sleep here you see,
on my own, in the spare room, when I’ve had my tea.
There’s real flannel sheets and a big comfy bed
with soft feather pillows to lay down my head.
When I’ve eaten my tea Gran will take me upstairs
and wait by my side while I’m saying my prayers.
She’ll tuck in my blankets and kiss me goodnight,
and wish me ‘God Bless’ and then bid me sleep tight.
The sweet smell of lavender rests on the air
from the bunches my Grandma has hung everywhere.
But I know if I open the drawers by the walls,
I’ll wrinkle my nose from the smell of mothballs.
I lay there and think of good things while I rest,
at home, my own bedroom is one of the best.
A computer and tele’, and my own phone as well,
why is it Gran’s house then, can cast such a spell?
I know everyone loves me, both here and at home,
but staying at Grandma’s makes me feel quite grown.
I find when I’m here then I do not run wild,
and they never treat me like I was a child.
The thing I’ve decided that I like most here
is the feeling I’m safe and have nothing to fear.
The way they both speak, in a soft gentle tone,
it’s much quieter here than it is back at home.
But the thing I love best when I’m lying in bed
is the ‘smell’ of the room that floats all round my head.
Yes, the smell of the lavender, Gran hangs on the walls,
and the smell from the drawers, of my Grandad’s mothballs!
Ivor G Davies
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