George

didn't outlive the baby name he reddened at. Death made sure of it,

lumbered him, forever Doodie, neighbours’ nice-lad,

mother's son, always coming home with jam-jars,

darting tiddlers, tadpoles squirming, and now never coming home

from the sweltering sandstorm of a country he knew nothing of.

I'm like him. In this photograph (Hold it, Smile) the baby's me

he's holding, eyes scrunched up, oblivious of being shot.

John

kept his elder-brother name, dependable John, outliving both;

came home, tough sergeant if ever there was one, from that war,

to be a straight-talking donkey-jacket man, crafty with dock-lore,

pub-lore, solid as a sack of spuds, who knew his rights, and all

the wrongs of owners, blockermen; unloaded ships of cargoes,

sacks and crates, loaded them with copper tubing, sports cars, trains;

died in his garden slamming a spade into unrelenting clay.

Ada

my mother; married beneath her (only just) her sailor boy;

‘always a lady’ neighbours kept reminding me when she was gone,

as if somehow they knew the street had entertained a blessing;

didn't outgrow her baby name either. Pippy was a knitter

of cable-stitch, a silent sufferer. Why do I know so little of her –

that part of myself I never get much purchase on? What do I tell

grandchildren about the face they wear? That timorous look,

those eyes her eyes.