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One Step from the Fire

Martha lounges in her rocking chair book in knotted hand in her studio

On the wall a poster of Chipperfield Circus whom she had wanted to join

Just above a small marble statue that resembles the lost state of her affairs

And a print by Spitzweg ‘The Poor Poet’ with an umbrella over his head

The mind is a funny place but at least the rain is kept at considerate bay


The theatre of thoughts in her attic has dropped the penultimate curtain

Now she is dreaming of her life going past to her own kind applause

Next to the fireplace a magnificent parasol blue and white like the sky

Now grannie has done her chores put the tinder wood on the washing line

The pegs in the inglenook with rekindled aspirations of today’s yesteryear


The kettle is ‘boiling’ but her kids have turned off the gas just to be sure

‘What a nice cup of cocoa’ hot and bubbly like strawberry ice cream

‘My verse is my castle’ as she reads it once more but so novel it seems

The hoover is blasting ‘Comedian Harmonists’ so the wireless is not on

No more watching the TV through the shiny washing machine porthole


‘Four Seasons’ drama have become repetitive but she wouldn’t feel it

Winter is nigh but the furnace is roaring ‘Not too close to purgatory though’

Only yesterday it appears on her screen that she was a sweet ballerina

Now she is beating the drum and kicking a bucket because the canopy leaks

Her cardigan is the flak jacket from one of the many wars raging inside her


I must write to my Daddy but the knitting needle only scratches the surface

The chisel scrapes away her soul and she is surrounded by so many voices

‘Another blog under the chimney’ as photos and memories go up in smoke

‘A bit like the Vatican’ she mumbles and loses another marble or gemstone

The fake fruit in the bowl taste a little bit off but ‘Thanks to God I have food’


She hooks the ebony walking stick onto a bobeche and swings to and fro from

The chandelier ‘Twinkle little star’ and candle cups hold crayons and carrots

‘Basket cake biscuit case’ she whispers and retrieves a pin from her corset

‘See it tickles when I push it right in’ a jolly tattoo and a fountain from pen

Pink purple ink spills over her jammies ‘I must refill my heart’s cartridge'


Her heirs are waiting jostling in pole position but crown jewels and gold coins 

Are hidden under the floor boards for safe keeping her fortunes from rust

Silver spoons heaped under cover but at least a magic carpet is warming her lap

The mink stole is a bit worse for wear and thus tucked away for a rainy day

The congregation won’t think it’s funny but Martha is happy in her dementia



24th April 2019
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