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A Widow’s Weeds
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https://annperrinpoetry.files.wordpress.com/2015/04/008-awidowsweeds.mp3A Widow’s Weeds
Mrs. Howell had always lived in the attic
in her widows’ weeds.
We children swore she wore them in bed
and wondered how she managed up there
without a lavatory.
Once a month the coalman called
with his horse and cart
tumbled coal from a sooty bag
into the tiny cupboard on landing.
One day I sat on her stairs,
listening to her fire fizz
as she jabbed it with a poker.
Shocked when she opened the door
and said softly “Would you like to come in?”
A tiny room with a high bed,
a chest of drawers, a primus stove,
a washstand, a shelf of little treasures.
I looked up at the sloping window
in the roof, all she had were clouds
to keep her company.
She showed me her pieces of seaside
pottery, a photo of a man in uniform,
a cut-glass dish pasted with a picture
of Nigara Falls.
I held the dish up to the skylight
kaleidoscope colours danced around the room.
I saw the warmth of her smile,
heard the ripple of her laughter.
But time had vanished, I had to go.
Mrs Howell was wrapping a newspaper parcel
wrapping and rolling.
Rolling paper round and round
I was doubtful but she insisted.
Sixty years ago
And I still have the glass dish
The Falls are long gone but the
kaleidoscope of colours remain
and ripples of her laughter
still dance in my mind.
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