Grandma travelled the Sahara at eighteen,

all she needed packed in two suitcases

the one

almost forgotten

later

on at an airport  in Ciaro

when a young man asked her name.

At twenty-five she saw India,

found a husband on the roads

took her father’s disapproval,

wrote a book

Love In India

Then lost him to the army

and swore against rings on fingers

till her last breath.

Paris was calmer in her words.

Less heat

more classical sheik

in restaurants, and a cafe.

Sipping champagne on the Siene

but thinking still in India

of a man and a smile,

of spices and music.

Beirut was exciting.

Claimed she met Philby,

under the cover of darkness

in a little bar off a corner.

Claimed she kissed him,

took his stutter in her mouth

thought him very proper.

In England she tried to settle,

never married

but lived

with a man her father favoured once.

A friend who thought her beautiful,

gave her children

and ears to tell stories.

At ninety she left

with a will naming India

as her home

where she wanted

to return.

They took her ashes,

scattered them across

all the roads that they took

and watched for a man

waiting by the crossroads.