Poem for Nan - WIP

I've built you a heaven from my memories.
Your malaprop'd "monocle"
is set on the grand oak table
(more fitted for a stately home
than a bungalow kitchen).
You'll need that,
for scouring the clues in the newspaper.
Yesterday's mystery of 7 across,
is finally revealed in the small print, inverted.

Set down on the table,
it makes ellipses of the grain
around its chrome casing,
and a study of it under its lens.
The refracted light from the kitchen-diner chandelier
is re-focussed in overlapping circles on the grain,
as it always was.

I've picked you a silk nightdress,
a fleece dressing gown,
and slippers that match neither.
The dressing gown fleece is soft against my cheek
and your arms feel like home.

Above the tiny telly
a picture smiles down.
A young woman in uniform,
sepia, with strange hair
and an air about her.
"Yes, that was me."
You'd smile and sigh.

I don't know if she'd like it here,
that quick, clever girl who could
fix an anti aircraft gun.

I can't see her doing a crossword,
or indulging a child too many sweets
while singing to Songs of Praise.
"The Old Rugged Cross" was your favourite.
She crushed on Tony Martin, and went to the cinema
with soldiers who weren't my Grandad.

Now free from your body,
soft and gentled by necessity;
are you the laughing eyed girl?
Is that your heaven?

Ranunculus WIP so bloody tired ...

Edit: OMG, like... I am a 16 year old girl.  Jesus.  What the hell was I thinking?! This belongs in a whiny supernatural roleplay book from the mid '90s.   And that's probably why I'm keeping it up, because god help me, I LOVE that cheesy stuff.
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Homunculus: "little man"
The dark magician brings forth the homunculus to hold a part of himself... his greed, anger, or some lighter part like his sense of humour. 

Ranunculus: "little light of the sun"
The lover is inspired by their muse to bring out the best in themselves.  Its form is fragile, and outside of the protection of the mind, its fate is most often to be crushed - more often by clumsiness than malice.
Upon the destruction of their Ranunculus, the lover feels bereft, as the best part of them truly has been destroyed.  But with time and nourishment, the fertile heart soil grows another.  The lover is wise to be cautious before allowing a muse song to draw out their Ranunculus for a second, third or even fourth time.  The memory of pain is a wise teacher.  But the lover is also wise to not wall their Ranunculus up so that no song will ever reach it again, lest it wither on the vine and poison the heart soil with its decay.