I Wonder What They're Doing Now

My mother with her Peter Pan collar and court shoes,
called me wicked if I jumped ahead in cinema queues,
enjoyed sweetmeats, licked lips, rolled eyes heavenwards,
smacked my bottom, wagged fingers backwards and forwards.

My brothers played wall tag, ran across the road,
one run over by a bus became a terrible load,
to bear, a small white haired boy who I never met,
someone closed his eyes, his love we would not forget.

My sister died this week, I'm the last one left,
you wonder, I'm tough but still feeling a bit bereft;
My dad wore a Fair Isle pullover, smoking a pipe,
I hear him: 'Go on son,' and then away the tears I wipe.

I cherish their memory every day and year by year,
why were they all 'up' there and I'm still down here?