Auntie Florrie

I remember Auntie Florrie,
who was no kin of mine,
but a friend of my Grandma,
since before the dawn of time.
She always wore a hat,
skewered to her head with a pin,
like a magic trick with swords.
There were hairs on her chin
that tickled with each grudging kiss
I gave to thank her for a gift
I didn't really want; like socks:
Politeness in exchange for thrift.
Even at the height of Summer,
she wore a greatcoat, buttoned to the neck;
an appirition, all in black.
"Stand still, boy. You look like the Wreck
of the Hesperus," she would declare,
in a voice racked by Woodbine rasp,
as she snagged my hair and smoothed
the tangles in her bony grasp;
fingers gnarled by years of knitting
pink and blue layette
for all those post-war babies.
Did she ever once regret
not having children of her own?
Thoughtless child, what did I know?
Watching John Mills or John Wayne,
with stiff upper lip, or all gung-ho:
I copied heroes of the silver screen;
killing hordes of nip and hun
with my toy rifle, not caring
if they were fathers, or some mother's son.
Looking back, I see her now:
One widow from a generation
of widows, dressed in mourning,
without counselling or compensation,
made welcome at our hearth
for a natter and endless cups of tea,
(the panacea of our times)
now relegated to history.
Yes, I remember Auntie Florrie,
who was no kin to me,
but a part of something I have lost:
My extended family.