MY MAMAS HOUSE

My mother’s house is full of birds and lodgers

Sitting on the stairs, sleeping underneath the beds

And shinning up the drainpipes at the back

She’s dowmnstairs, cooking on a disconnected stove

With a cast iron skillet full of earrings, small pearl buttons lost from shirts, and silver collar studs.

My mother’s wardrobe’s full of ball-gowns

Sandwiches and biscuit barrels full of instant coffee, there’s granulated sugar in her dancing shoes

And mashed corn with black stew in the kitchen

She’s counting out her trifle dishes, knitting needles, crochet hooks, the food comic book and sixpences.

My mother’s landing’s full of women, queuing for the lodger

The young one with the torch and cycle clips; she’s looking for an egg and sweet patato pie and a Thermos flask of tea to tide them over

while the lodgers on the stairs begin a song her father sang

With choruses, rude verses, all the twiddly bits and harmonies.

They’re singing Dan maraya to her, we love you so dearly ma

while she scoops her creamy pap into amber sundae glasses

Adds angelica and violets, tiny roses made of marzipan and coffee flavoured biscuits, shaped like fans.

I was eternally safe...
In my mama's house