Mavis

 

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Mavis had a room

that didn’t have a name.

 

You did not dine.

You did not live.

It was not kitchen.

Was not front.

Was not back or parlour.

 

Mavis had this furniture

that I had never seen.

 

It was not settee.

Was not armchair.

Was not pouffe,

for phone,

or couch divan.

 

Mavis had this massive room

full of fiery light.

 

Floaty motes looped in rays

like lasers onto French windows

that looked out on her pa-tee-oh

where goldfish bobbed and bubbled

all around a cooling pool.

 

Mavis had a broh-cade stool,

no arms or back to it.

 

Broad and cushioned lushful seating,

made to sit and play the thing

it sat so grand in front of -  

majestically ivoried,

two-tone keys to soothe.

 

I remember wanting Mavis

to be my real mum,

so I could sit in sunshine

playing music to myself

in her beautifully decorated room without a name;

to sit on stones and tickle fish

in safe and silent solitude,

for more than just

one golden afternoon.