© Knot Magazine. Kristen D. Scott. All Rights Reserved
2014-2020 No images, or words may be taken from this site
without permission from Knot Magazine and the artists included.
My Granny minded it
Keeping it safe in her shawl,
It's dark brown patination
A match for own skin,
The melanin protection
Caused by years in the open sun.
When she died it was passed,
To my mother, her oldest girl.
Often it would be taken out
In mid May and looked at.
When we got old enough
We'ed ask what it opened.
Then the tears would stream.
Silently they'd flow, wiped
Off with the back of each hand,
That would lower
And grab us in a hug.
Then we heard of Naktba.
The disaster, Jews that were
Welcomed, became traitors,
Bringing the soldiers to homes,
That had once offered them shelter,
Now bombed, the men and boys killed.
The key was a reminder of the pain,
A totem for a time when return
To our land would be possible.
So the key is handled with care
And will be handed generation
To generation, the key to our future.
Patrick Dorrian is a sixty four year old retired teacher of geography, He lives in Belfast, Ireland with his wife. Dorrian has a deep interest in the plight of Palestinians. In recent weeks there have been many pictures on social media showing young and old refugee Palestinians holding large keys to properties that were stolen from them during and after Nakba. They inspired this poem.