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a poem by Richie McCaffery
Old Woman's Mantelpiece
His miner's lamp has sat squat,
lightless on your mantelpiece
since his dead friend put it there
thirty years ago, and plonked
his boots on your dining table.
You knew then he had joined
the seams of fossil darkness
he sought out, to stoke
your cast-iron hearth.
The porcelain wallie dogs
keenly await your signal
and will smash themselves
on your command, only, now.
Not by your husband's fists,
heavy with Eighty Shillings.
Fingers too coarse and numb
to open or even find
your small abalone buttons.
lightless on your mantelpiece
since his dead friend put it there
thirty years ago, and plonked
his boots on your dining table.
You knew then he had joined
the seams of fossil darkness
he sought out, to stoke
your cast-iron hearth.
keenly await your signal
and will smash themselves
on your command, only, now.
Not by your husband's fists,
heavy with Eighty Shillings.
Fingers too coarse and numb
to open or even find
your small abalone buttons.