poem for my sister

Me, my nephew Lloyd, and my sister Lois, on holiday with us in Cornwall in 2006. They both live in Glasgow.

Sis

(rondeau redoublé)

My sister’s busy breaking in new shoes,
Teetering round her tiny flat all day.
She loves small treats, would hate a luxury cruise.
Search for her inner child keeps age at bay,

And the shy flirt G.I.’s fought for till D-Day
Is still here: for the shortest walk she’ll choose
A scarf to match her lipstick. But today
My sister’s busy breaking in new shoes.

A Sunday with her son cures any blues;
They’re soul-mates, tender, talkative and gay.
She thinks of him, and far-off Cornish views,
Teetering round her tiny flat. All day

She will anticipate the one Milk Tray
She’ll have while watching John Snow read the News;
Later, with Paxman, milky Nescafé;
She loves small treats, would hate a luxury cruise.

She’ll watch and re-watch DVD’s for clues
To Hugh Grant’s spiritual growth. She’ll say,
‘He’s sensitive, like me: we easily bruise.’
Search for her inner child keeps age at bay.

Deep into ‘Metaphysics’, she’ll enthuse
Over blue blinds, pink towels, red pantsuit –grey
Is not allowed near her. The caller who’s
In black can’t get an answer, limps away:
My sister’s busy.