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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.