Poky mid terrace back kitchen,
nightfall of Thatcher's Britain,
lost in a small Welsh town,
Carmarthen nineteen ninety.
I live out my homesick pain
with iron and sweet starch spray.
Of gas fire hiss and media murmur
and rain slashed on grimy glass,
of politics and era's end,
in lonely oblivion I labour.
Words rise from whisper to roar,
to fill a dingy night with colour.
Fading icon pauses to gaze
tears trapped within her eyes.
And suddenly I am held
by quiet calm after rampant storm,
by a pause before curtain fall.
One final closing door upon
my childhood innocence.
I listen for a tolling bell
to roll out across the gloom
and all I hear
is ssshhh of steam
and all I smell is starch.
© Berenice Dunford
(published in blackmailpress 11)
