I
Widowed, she was, by Mr Stokoe,
whose careless heroism left his wife
smoothing those ashes
before burying them in a different hole.
She's back on Monday. Pressing for the Navy,
she felts her skin in steam and knits the face
which insulates her loss from leakage.
In the coven of the council house
that mask will be seen but not read:
all the expressions are taken.
Darkening, she will dispense with the wedding dress.
II
Mother spits.
"She was dark, all kernel, sharp.
That rung-out laundress did not stop:
Standing, labouring for me,
the prickle-cow swaddled alright,
with the sheets and shirts of the Navy-
I was her battle-dress, stiffened"
"The bombs drop and she gets into bed
with Jude the Obscure".
She spits again. The iron is hot.
Between the sheets, my grandmother slips
and history repeats. My mother reads,
nurses me with Flaubert.
Maternal flesh, then. No warmth there.
Any comments gratefully received. David, very good job you aren't my boss-I'd never get any writing done at all....
dogtired
