I see him now, my grandfather, <br />grey-‘tached and calm, <br />still centre of a raging storm. <br />He sits upright and puffs upon <br />his old tobacco pipe, <br />meanwhile my mother, frantic, <br />cursing, ranting, scrabbles <br />in the sideboard drawers and <br />cupboards, rummages <br />coat pockets, handbag, biscuit tin, <br />upturns ornaments that spill <br />old coins and buttons, keys <br />and rings and safety pins, <br />then flings chair cushions <br />far and wide and fiddles <br />with her fingers down the backs <br />of all our easy chairs and sofa. <br />This time she’s lost, I think, her watch. <br /> <br />At last like some Greek oracle of old <br />my grandad speaks those words <br />that always fanned my mother’s rage — <br />“It must be somewhere”, <br />he would say, or better still — <br />“It’s looking at you! ” <br />Surprisingly he lived <br />to reach a ripe old age.<br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/helpful-advice/
