From Napo 2021
Polishing The Brass
Gran gave us ‘a little job’,
to keep little fingers out of mischief
when we couldn’t play outside…
A bit of ‘Brasso’ wadding,
with its pungent smell.
Fingers turning green,
then black, as we rubbed,
and rubbed, and rubbed.
Removing the patina of age
from brass firedogs,
picture frames,
horse-brasses,
silver snuffboxes,
and copper bracelets
for arthritic joints.
Sat on the handmade peg-rug
by her carefully tended fire,
hearing the rattle of her kettle
as she made tea for us all.
Smelling the warmth of cake,
cooking in her oven, and soot
falling softly down the chimney,
burning again on the coals.
A white enamelled mug of cocoa,
keeping warm on the trivet.
Putting our black fingers
near our noses ‘tainted’ the drink,
so it skinned up on top,
surface chilled by the wind
which slid in from the kitchen,
stirring the ashes on the hearth…
Now, as an old man,
I sit in my soothing grey room,
with black and brown bookcases,
fitted carpet, and no chills,
and polish my own collection.
Busy old fingers,
turning green then black.
Keeping my mind occupied.
Away from things which disturb,
dark paths I’d rather avoid.
A shiny loading clip,
ten ridiculously bright bullets,
copper tips like slim arrowheads,
nestled in glowing brass,
A single round,
saved from a machine-gun belt.
A 20 millimetre shell,
from an aircraft cannon,
World War Two vintage.
Copper bands and brass cap
far too beautiful for a thing of death.
A ‘trench-art’ paper knife,
made from recycled brass,
polished to perfection.
‘Souvenir of St Omer,
1918.’
My blackened fingers glide
over a set of brass weights,
from a 1/4 to four ounces.
My bakery apprentice memento.
Soothed and restful I wash my hands,
curl up in my bed,
and know all is well.
Gyppo