Helpful Advice Poem by Pete Crowther

I see him now, my grandfather,
grey-‘tached and calm,
still centre of a raging storm.
He sits upright and puffs upon
his old tobacco pipe,
meanwhile my mother, frantic,
cursing, ranting, scrabbles
in the sideboard drawers and
cupboards, rummages
coat pockets, handbag, biscuit tin,
upturns ornaments that spill
old coins and buttons, keys
and rings and safety pins,
then flings chair cushions
far and wide and fiddles
with her fingers down the backs
of all our easy chairs and sofa.
This time she’s lost, I think, her watch.

At last like some Greek oracle of old
my grandad speaks those words
that always fanned my mother’s rage —
“It must be somewhere”,
he would say, or better still —
“It’s looking at you! ”
Surprisingly he lived
to reach a ripe old age.