A Widow’s Weeds

Poetry by Ann Perrin - Poems read by the Author.

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https://annperrinpoetry.files.wordpress.com/2015/04/008-awidowsweeds.mp3

A 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.