Listen to Ann’s poem called Weaving Spells now – just press on arrow on this site.

He was a magician to us

weaving spells with wood and clay.

Other people’s dads went to work

and reappeared for supper.

Ours spent his days

and most nights

carving marionettes

in his cluttered workshop.

He was always engrossed

kneading clay or carving wood,

the music of Glen Miller blaring

from a battered radio.

We would clink through the chaos

with mother’s homemade cakes,

the smell mingling with the stench of glue

boiling on an ancient cooker.

Our faces shone with shy smiles

as his hand took the teacup.

He had been whisked away to war,

we barely knew him.

We lived at Gran’s

and discovered him one day

in the hallway

with a battered trunk.

A soldier

in a coarse khaki uniform,

a clarinet in a case

and chocolate in his pockets.