On first reading Angela’s poem recalling her somewhat cunning (winked at her cronies) grandmother, it appears to be all about superstition (the four leafed clover in her purse) and luck (they called her a jammy beggar) especially when set in a bingo hall at a holiday camp.

But this is also a poem about a strong matriarch, her strength of belief and of those who believed in her (I spent hours on my knees, counting leaves on clover). And there, at the end is the poignant twist, that when used to ‘lend strength, bolster radiation, shrink tumours’, even when you find the perfect clover, and it still doesn’t work, the reason? I’ll let Angela’s grandmother tell you. (more…)