It being hot, very hot, what better way to escape than to the hills? A lesson in looking at what's on your own doorstep, we took in the views of Saddleworth, Delph (where they've apparently been serving fish and chips since 1769, now there's history for you), Uppermill and finally stopped off in Grains Bar on the hilltop above Oldham, on the cusp of West Yorkshire, to quench our now considerable thirst, where wafts of warm grass and clover scents were coming across the beer garden and some dramatic skies floated above to remind us of last night's cracking Summer thunder storm.
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.