Granny's House

A Poem by Mairead Ramsay

Taigh mo Sheanmhair painting by Mairead Ramsay (click to enlarge)

	A scud in the bus oot to the carse, Number six on a road called Lochalsh, ‘Willowcottage’, its gate green paintit, white-washed,harled and gable-endit. Up red cardinal’d steps we hurtle, Rub the luck frae a stane in the lintle, Here at Grannies house it’s rare, Chap them up at the braw front dair.
	“Bon accord” the knocker proclaims, how exciting for us three wee wains, Grannie and Granda are really chuffed, “Hiyadooin?” We all laughed. Laupin around like lambs and heifers, Prise the cubbies to seize the treasures, Halfways up the creaky stairs, Bellow and bawl, oor patter blares.
	Ahint his case wee yellow Bobbie, As magical as a storytime fairy, Up comes the glass, Oh so carefully, Pat his feathers, Oh so gently. Chargin up frae the spooky basement, Twa steps a time on the rickity casement, Open the glory-hole stuffed wi clutter, Playing pirates is oor breid an’butter.
	Burrow a cave in blue bed covers, Set the ‘Teasmaid’ for unsociable hours, Try Grannies curlers in oor hair, Find Grandas chanty in its lair. Mak a robot frae a paper bin, And cut-off jeans wi no bum in, Then doon the backie we all run, Hows about some fresh air fun?
	Housie-housie in the lavvy, Wi nets and rugs and paraffin lampie, Hide and seek and chassies too, We dinnae even notice the loo. Peacocks and admirals dance on flowers, Roses and catnip wi magic powers, Green creepy crawlies and black hairy marys, Puff the clocks to loose the fairies.
	“Hey!” Did you hear oor Granny shout? For a sec high jinks are out, Frae atop the press sweeties are taken, Aren’t we glad oor lugs were working. Are ye for a wee fly cuppie? Put the gas on for the pannie, A tasty piece wi rosehip jelly, Cakey-bun or even clootie.
	Petticoattails dress a dish, Endless like the loaves and fish, A tumbler each of ‘Vimto’ too, Or do ye fancy ‘Irn bru’? Then ben the parlour to play a wee while, Wind-up oor Granda in great style, Draughts for cheats, cards for chancers, Piano tunes for three sword dancers.
	Peat fire built to toast oor shins, Tinkers tartan paints oor pins, Yon clock was a tree in ninteen eight, Brocht ower frae the United State. Hear Grandas pocket ticker chime, “Michty me! Is yon the time?” “Tae yer beds it’s the back o’nine” We even thocht that this wiz fine.
	Piping piggies in pink nicht goons, For cosy toes in cauld bedrooms, Clarty bissums wi cats-lick faces, Bottles and nappies in their places. The big anes like to tuck us in, Wi shaggy dug tales frae brothers Grimm, In no time we’re all flaked oot, But is it no too quiet wi nae bairns aboot?