homecoming

Homecoming

By the open fire, hair dripping wet,

Memories in her head, she will not forget,

Her man away, work’s hard for his living,

Home to his lady, his all he’ll be giving,

Oh, and he is on his way, homebound, on the road,

Collect his wages, hard earned pay, lighten the family load,

Her hair patted dry, sat by the fireside,

Curlers all warmed up now, ready to stem the tide,

They’ll be going out then, dancing in the local pub,

But first, she must attend to him, fill him full of grub,

Children each with a curler, warmed gently in the heat,

Older ones at the ready, a hairdo, no mean feat,

When done, a net put over it, to keep it all in place,

A scarf upon the net, showing her angelic face,

Her man almost home now, dinner almost done,

Kids all fed and bedded, waiting quietly for him to come,

The latch on the front door, lifted quietly and with ease,

A vision of beauty in the candle light, she’s displayed, to please,

The traveling has been washed from him, he’s fed and had his fill,

Off to the dancing pub, his vision he would thrill,

Those days by the fire, prepping mam to meet our dad,

Memories cherished, frozen, of which I am so glad,

The days would come and go, and some for me are clear,

The result of his homecoming, thirteen reason’s we’re all here.

the magician

The magician

She peeled spuds from an old sack, laid on the floor,

Smoke wafting from the ash laden cigarette in her mouth,

Screamed at all thirteen of us kids, no one goes out that door,

Swearing the chores in the house were suffering a drought,

One by one she named off those older, in charge of one room or other,

Cigarette ash still hanging unwavering, from the corner of her well-seasoned mouth,

It was never easy being in charge of thirteen kids, being their mother,

But she managed it through our very own famine and drought,

The father was about, late at night, sometimes at the weekend, to unwind,

More oft gone for days working, in the post the parcel came he’d sent,

Pockets sewn up, money inside, safe from loss during travel, easy to find,

Just in time, as there was always someone calling, collecting a debt or rent?

That ash never seemed to fall from the cigarette, at least not that I can tell,

And there were mornings, we could lick the ice, from inside our window,

If there were issues, they were something on which we couldn’t afford to dwell,

It was either fix it, repair it, mend it, everything had a use there was little to throw,

Lately I wonder, how she, like so many others of her time coped,

Who taught her the business of running what was family life,

Doing all in her head money, school, cook, aid for any who choked,

Thirteen of us, yet still finding time to be a dutiful wife?

I still don’t recall that ash having ever hit our kitchen floor,

And she walked from dawn to dusk, cooking cleaning washing ironing,

We helped as best we could, just long enough to see escape, out the front door,

All thirteen independent strong fairly decent adults more or less history defining,

Later years, when your smoking days were over, I’d leave the odd one lying about,

Not a word spoken, a wry smile as you pretended not to see, yet you knew,

Waved and cheered as I shouted, “Cheerio” mother and went off out,

I return now, cigarette gone, ash still unseen, the magician my mam, missing you