For Grandma Let’s set the table by the river and sit under the golden spots of light no need, this time, to paint- we’ve got a backdrop of deep undergrowth behind us and yellow cornfields in the distance. These billowing beeches will do to drape the wings, and our chorus- purple loosestrife, willow-herb, meadow-sweet and dog-rose, can improvise their parts. Listen! our orchestra below the heaving bank runs on without us - chasing it’s notes, shaking free the gurgled symphonies of it’s last act. Let’s invite our company- our family, and friends, and the family of their friends.. The stage is set! The scene is writ! We’ll have a light lunch, we don’t need much, just soup and bread, pickled shallots, cold ham from Sunday mango chutney boiled eggs, salad bits (lettuce, rocket) the tomatoes are our own, you know a quiche, and new potatoes hot with butter, salt and pepper, some greens we need to eat up and of course for pudding, chocolate cake pass me your plate, blackcurrant pie with custard, stewed up fruit, chocolate crispie (for the children) there’s custard tarts as well and over the clatter of plates and tangled arms and chairs scraped, something poured and photos fetched to illustrate a story we’ve all heard before - you can slip out. We’ll carry on eating. We know our parts. I never saw the first white curtain rise at dawn, clinging to the grass til light came. When it dims, and dusk falls, you won’t hear the applause. But I am living. I remember you. Billie Davis