Atishoo!

I sneeze, it seems, like Mother's granny
(born in 1863).*
What a legacy she leaves me;
how Victorian are we!

Did she, also, cry, "Oh dear!"
every time she sneezed her worst,
she who sneezed so long before me,
she whose massive sneeze came first?

For sure, she never reached for tissues,
blew, then threw them in the bin.
Did she blow her hankies threadbare;
wear their cotton paper-thin?

I'm proud to know my sneeze has history,
provenance that could explain
why I sneeze so loud and often:
thank you, dear old Agnes Jane.

poem © Celia Warren 2012

*Since writing this poem, I discover that my great-grandmother was actually born in 1862. That's what they call poetic licence!

(Rediscovered how to take three rapid shots on 'timer' - and this was the first.)