Her warmth was bundled up with tales,
Her knowledge flowed on through the years,
The gentle heat, the milk and sweet,
The alchemy of cultured thought.
And in each bite, a crunch of salt,
The memories of mountain peaks.
From ninety generations formed:
A slight and sliver, ash and heart.
With such pride she gave her love,
With each remembered trick and tip.
On every drying shelf a tale,
Another history of grace.
She carried secrets to her grave.
She took off much, but left her soul.
Gavin R Jones 
Lovely.
Oh, too bad she didn’t share with others before she died. I wonder why she didn’t share. It is a shame to have such a secret lost forever.
sounds like my grandmother.she could tell such lovely tales.
“on every drying shelf a tale”. and “herwarmth was bundled up with tales”…..sounds like my grandma too. Grandmas have wonderful stories!
“Another history of grace.” She sounds wonderful. Love this piece.
This is one of my favourites because there is such warmth in the piece.
I actually love the notion of the discipine of “taking secrets to her grave” … lovely 🙂
such a lovely poem.. i love it.. especially the end.. there’s something bittersweet about taking secrets to the grave.
You’re making me want to pull out my records on my grandparents! I have a picture of my grandfather (around 1900s), in his cricket uniform in the Lake District in England! (Is it district, country, or county? I forget!)
The Lake District is mainly in the county of Cumbria (also bits in Westmoreland and kind of in Yorkshire-ish [well, the Howgill Hills are almost in the Lake District]). It’s a beautiful part of the world – about an hour from where I sit. You should head over sometime – but if you do, do check out the Yorkshire Dales and the East Lancashire/West Yorkshire moors. Where did your grandfather live?