Black and Tan

My grandmother knew the opening scrape

of her front gate was not a friend.

toId us she remembered staying perfectly still,  

his hard step crunching through her.

She didn’t remember his face,

how long he stood in her kitchen,

what lies or truths she uttered.

My infant aunt gurgled in her cot.

Did she go to the child? Pick her up?

Offer tea? Ask for mercy?

She did remember his words:

I have a little girl like this at home, myself

For sixty-three years she stepped over.

the spot on her flagged floor

where the Black and Tan had stood