Two Photographs

Here's a photograph of grandmother, Annabella.

How slim she appears, how vulnerable. Pretty.

And here's a photograph of grandmother, Doris.

How portly she looks, formidable. Handsome.

Annabella wears a demure black frock with an amber

brooch.

Doris, a lacy black gown with a string of pearls.

One photo's marked Ystalyfera 1880,

the other Bridgend 1890.

Both were told to say, 'Cheese'; one, defiant, said

'Chalk!'

Annabella spoke Welsh with a Patagonian accent.

Doris spoke English with a Welsh Valleys' lilt.

Annabella fasted-pious, passive, enjoyed small talk.

Doris feasted-pacy, pushy, would never pray. Ate

pork!

When Annabella told Doris she was damned

indecorous Doris devilishly laughed.

I liked Doris, I liked Annabella,

though Doris was bossy and Annabella daft.

I do not think they liked each other.

Last night I dreamed they stood back to back,

not for the commencement of a duel

but to see who was taller! Now, in these revived

waking hours, my Eau de Cologne grandmothers

with buns of grey hair, of withered rose,

seem illusory, fugitive, like my dream-

or like the dust that secretively flows

in a sudden sunbeam (sieved through leaky curtains)

and disappears when and where that sunbeam goes.

Of two old ladies once uxoriously loved,

what's survived? An amber brooch, a string of pearls,

two photographs. Happening on them, my children's

grandchildren will ask "Who?'-hardly aware