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 golden sunshine.

Floating motes whirled in waves

through rays that beamed through big glass doors

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 move.

 

I remember wanting Mavis

to be my real mum,

so I could sit in sunshine

playing music to myself;

solitude in nameless rooms,

soothing all the heat and hurt,

then shimmy through the big glass doors

to waste away the afternoon,

to sit on stones and tickle fish.

 

 

NB: this is an edited version of an old poem