My grandmother was no saint,
chewed bacco,
swore to my ears blushed,
air turned blue
and never had she time for crying babies.
At eighty
she took a lover who was sixty
he didn’t last long her demands
and lust for life too great for only one man.
Mother, a fallen nun,
(gossip about her and the municipal head gardener,
never properly explained to me)
tried to get her committed.
Our elderly parish priest went to see her
as he thought
it was time for her to think of higher things,
foolishly he took a sip of her home made dandelion wine
and legless carried home.
Rumours had it
that she had seduced him;
perhaps true
he left the next day
never to be heard of again.
The new priest wisely stayed away
‘The devil can take care of his own’ he muttered,
which he regretted deeply
for when she died
there was a baffling light above her house
angels sang and brittle harp harmony drifted through morning still air.
This made the priest think twice about morality
and in time he became a wise old bishop.