My Handsome, Her Poppit

Elsie Metcalfe nee Mason

27/6/1986

My Handsome, Her Poppit
In loving memory, 39 years on

She called me my handsome, her little poppit,
With love in her voice and pride in her pocket.
Tall as I am, she was statuesque too,
In house coats and pinnys of lilac and blue.

She rose at ten, bed by ten, with prayers softly said,
A poem on the wall near the foot of her bed—
“Don’t grieve for me when I am gone,” it read,
A message of peace for the tears we all shed.

Coffee at eleven, dinner at one,
Her days were measured in warmth and sun.
The Archers at one, her daily delight,
Then Crossroads and Dallas to close out the night.

Rusty the dog, her scruffy sidekick,
Drank from a Fray Bentos tin, quick as a lick.
A thick loaf of bread for takeaway tea,
And rock cakes that crumbled just perfectly.

She let me lick bowls, my fingers all sweet,
No scolding—just smiles and a warm kitchen seat.
Zambuk on her lips, soft powdery grace,
And the humbugs that waited in a glass candy case.

Her hallway was freezing—you could see your breath rise,
But her smile thawed even the iciest skies.
My Gran was a hearth, a hug, and a hymn,
A steadying light when the world felt dim.

So here’s to her now, though the years have gone by,
I still hear her laugh, feel her watching nearby.
My childhood was golden because she was near—
And her whisper still lingers: “My handsome, I’m here.”

LOVE AND MISS YOU ALWAYS XXX