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
