poetry 2017 / 005

Scattered Ash

Smart in my school uniform

I watched the coffin

slide behind the velvet curtain

like a battleship to a watery grave.

Hard to imagine mum was in there,

her diminutive frame no longer making tea

or mincing the leftover roast on a Monday

for casserole or stew, bubbling

on the ancient Aga stove top

as she scooped away the fat from the top

some to keep for dripping,

some to soak the dog's biscuits.

I still do that now,

a little gravy saved for the dogs,

though now it's low fat, low sodium

and entirely vegetarian.

She would have disapproved

but then she would have disapproved of me

being an artist, an atheist,

a writer and fighter.

Onlt the best for her child.

University and marriage, three kids

and a house by the river,

a good job in the bank and an aneurysm at fifty.

I've had a stroke

I wonder if she'd be proud enough

to read my novels.