Rest In Peace, Elsie Jackson.

This is a poem for Grandma Jackson who died recently. I hope she'd like it, and I hope you do to.

Ooh No

I remember, I was, what, eight or nine,
That age when time seems to blend
And I - loving action films and rolling around,
Getting muddy, explosions, and “down on the ground” -
I wanted to be a stuntman.
To jump through windows and land on my back,
To get thrown through a table, get thrown out a train
Get thrown for a living – not engaging my brain, you know?

So I say to my Granny, that fountain of knowledge,
Such wisdom stored in that grey-framed head,
Those spectacle framed eyes
In the eye of my mind she is wearing red,
A jumper, I’m sure, of the finest weave,
And, of course, with tissues up one of her sleeves.
I say to my Granny,
‘When I grow up, I want to be a stuntman.’
Back comes the reply, preceded by a sharp
Intake of breath.
‘Ooh no. You don’t want to do that.
You want to be a librarian.’



And you know what? Maybe I do... Maybe I do...