Just a Bowl of Loving Porridge

At four years old, I stood,

While Mum and Dad argued, misunderstood.

I glanced at my Mum, her face a frown,

In a world weighed down by money’s crown.

Tight times pressed, my sister at school,

Past eight, nearly nine, the morning felt cruel.

Mum took my hand, no bike in sight,

We walked to Nan and Grandad’s, a four-mile hike.

I recall my Grandad, warm and kind,

Embracing my Mum, love intertwined.

A gentle soul, full of care,

In his presence, worries felt rare.

He turned to me with a twinkle in his eye,

“Would you like some porridge?” he asked with a sigh.

He lit the gas stove, a box from the larder,

As the warmth of his love made my heart grow larger.

I watched the porridge swirl in the pan,

Soft and creamy, a comforting plan.

He dipped in a spoon, tasted with grace,

Adding salt and sugar, a smile on his face.

The porridge bubbled, like craters on the moon,

A joyful dance, a sweet, soothing tune.

In that simple moment, my heart felt so free,

Just a bowl of loving porridge, pure happiness for me.

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