Touring Namibia with Grandma in the Corner

I wasn’t able to post last week as I was finally seeing some of this cool little country called Namibia, which is actually a pretty big country, and not cool for most of the time. Finally finished my Big Five pursuit, slept too little, ate one proper meal over the space of 4 days, and had a taste of holidays I can’t afford. Back at the Cheetah Conservation Fund, I am almost finished with my time in Namibia now, with less than 4 weeks left which frightens me, happy as I am to return home. Owing to this, in ways, I think I shall have to only upload my original poems once every two weeks, as I don’t have the time (or energy) to be whacking out weekly ditties.

For fear of being a downer to anyone, I shan’t elaborate on this week’s poem. It’s one that I’m sure speaks for itself, and hopefully most people can associate with. If anyone’s worried, I’m not so down as the seeds of this poem make out, but I’m sure it’s something everyone either fears or has had to handle. So this week, it’s “That’s Our Gran In The Corner”.

That’s Our Gran In The Corner

That’s our Gran in the corner, the comic unsaid.
                How her glasses are lost once again on her head,
                Is beyond me, but smile and pretend that instead,
                It’s the first time it happened since she left her bed,
                And let telling her nicely be all that is said.

That’s our Gran in the corner, her yarn on her thighs,
                With her hearing aid off and the TV up high,
                But she reads all the plots in the TV show guide,
                So although we are talking, don’t you be surprised,
                She prefers it for company over plotlines.

That’s our Gran in the corner, our focus she holds,
                With the heating up high, and forgotten tea cold,
                With acute elocution for stories retold,
                Both fantastic yet racist, mundane and yet bold,
                Of old times nigh forgotten, romantic and old.

That’s our Gran in the corner, beneath blankets neat.
                I remember when she was just Mother to meet,
                She would fly through her days, scarcely using her feet,
                She knew names of the town and each face in the street,
                But that bubble is burst, and her bones have her beat.

That’s our Gran in the corner, for once she’s awake,
                Making jokes of her tablets and pills that she takes,
                It’s a cocktail she’d have without stirring or shakes,
                But the colours like candy deserve to taste great,
                And I hope that they do, for monotony’s sake.

That’s our Gran in the corner, how slightly she sighs,
                Always talking of old friends, and times long gone by,
                With the laughter and sighs and the tears in her eyes,
                And we both know that not all of them still survive,
                On her better days, she’ll live the longest of lives.

That’s our Gran in the corner, so quiet she pleas.
                Oh how badly she wants to go out for her tea,
                Though she will not remember midway through the week,
                But the happiness stays without those memories,
                As our gift to the shell that was once owned by she.