Horse’s hairy tail who dared to pull?
Would lost pictures Granny’s needle ever stitch?
Mixed up four hues of Gran’s prized wool?
Grubby little snails in shoes who stored?
Treacle in sleepy ears who liked to pour?
Of insects dead, had the scariest hoard?
Hide naughty pails over innocent door?
Grandpa’s gruff boots, who’d misplace?
Crash biscuit tins, disturb deserved rest?
Who’d steal sniffs from his tobacco case?
Granny’s grand patience who liked to test?
Drove to distraction, his mother dear.
Children whose chuckles once counted four,
Pride glowed in her eyes, when were still clear,
With birthday songs when their voices would soar.
- The End -
Author's note: most people think back to their childhood on their birthdays. Perhaps John Keats thought of his youth with his family, when he observed his last birthday when he was still alive on 31 October 1820 in a small room in Rome. However, little could he have guessed how famous he would become, or that 200 years later, the museum dedicated to his life, Keats House would be closed down in 2020, and suffer such big losses due to a pandemic.