The Step Poem by John H Davies

Left with my mother's parents
in Brithdir, or was it Llansanfraid?
I remember Nana washing the step
of the front porch.

No ceremony. A weekly task
without complaint.
Rust coloured tiles
evoking the remnants
of the iron railings in front of the house,
removed during the war.
Melted down for tanks.

My Grandfather wasn't around;
our shared duty.
I think I helped.
She laughs as I scrub the dark lines
between the tiles,
and smiles, and gives me a treat
for my surreptitious assistance,
or observance:
a foil covered piece of soft cheese
in the shape of a triangle,
that I nibble from one corner.
The metallic taste, will be unknown to her,
but to me is the world.
The new world.
Soot free.

But this world:
of a small hallway and porch,
a little woman, on her knees,
with bucket and sponge,
removing the coal dust
from the cracks in the tiles,
while the Minister
prepares the sermon,
is the one that sticks.

6th VI 2012