One of the poems from ‘The Puppeteer’s Daughter’
Everyone helped on Christmas Eve, the children in the living room
trusted to make neat crosses on sprouts bottoms,
peel potatoes and prod the hot chestnuts.
We’d laugh at my mother’s story of corn beef during the war.
Now a few years on it was roast chicken killed by Grandma
out in the garden and hung in the scullery for two days.
Grandpa staggered up the hill from the underground at eight
with apples, pears and nuts from our greengrocers in Goodge Street
gifts from fellow shopkeepers, glace fruits our absolute favourite
Grandmother insisted all through the war there would be no black market;
her methodists beliefs could not sanction anything dishonourable.
“Pity,” said Uncle Jack in later years, “We could have had butter, eggs, all sorts.”
An acknowledgement for the collection
” Ann Perrin is an original ‘Her memories of a world that is almost completely lost are coloured with wit and a vivid eye for detail’ These are poems that resonate long after one has finished reading them.” Tim Dooley.