For Gladys Hotchkiss
Christmas comes splitting
post, ream or quire,
the Yule log is spitting
with sparks from the fire.
Grandma is sitting
her mind quite a mire
of washdays and knitting
of childhood desire.
Yellows, blues, pinks
a young girl again
coloured gummed links
then a paper chain
of trimmings. She blinks ―
her memories in vain.
Know what she thinks?
Then think again!
All the Goss 