It is summer in Grandma’s garden,
we wipe the white plastic garden chairs with a damp cloth,
position them carefully so the legs won’t wobble
and take a deep breath
as Aunty Doreens’ ample bottom
fills the spaces at the sides.
We drink tea and eat biscuits
share news and stories of relatives
too far and distant
or too busy
to sit and enjoy the sunshine.
We put the world to rights
with opinion and argument
and are mimicked
in the imaginary games
being played on the lawn.
Grandma’s small grey statue of a boy –
minus his head once again,
is relegated to a corner of the dilapidated green house,
an anchor for cobwebs and forgotten memories.