Mrs Gower
Was not sour,
She lived right next door,
And the garden
Round her yard in
Summer always bore
Big white flowers,
Shady bowers,
Green delights galore.
In my mind
I always find
The sun in what I saw.
She had a cat –
Grey tabby that
Would lie around and hate;
It scowled and hissed –
Nobody missed
Its presence then or late.
Meanwhile my Ginger
Loved to linger
By that tabby’s plate;
He fed quite well
And looked real swell
(And never wanted weight).
But at her table,
Lipton label
Soaking up the sun,
Old Mrs Gower
Passed the hour
Crossing words for fun,
Then put the paper
By the bin, her
Washing on the line,
And swept the floors
And stayed indoors
For love or from decline.
The dappled light
Shines soft and bright
Where shadows often reigned,
And memories press
A wistfulness,
Yet don’t disturb the pained
Slow-ticking clock,
Familial stock,
Old feelings tense and strained.
We left them there
In disrepair,
For nothing could be gained
From pulling up
The roots. A cup
Of tea is shedding steam,
And so I’ll rise
With misty eyes
And blink as from a dream.
We mark and fete,
Commemorate
What’s lost in reverie,
And save our souls
From wounds and holes
In swathes of memory.
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