Lovely

She stands as she presses
[a hot flat curse by her sex]
at an obdurate crease –
not her finest ironing

Her reproach is thin mist
over her too-quick
Welshman slumped below her
Lovely – as ever – is unheard

inside their stained rooms
on steam and smoke days –
coughs of poked coal
suffer too by spotted damp

She is not loving anger’s
post-war monochrome –
Kodak and snapped charcoal
sketches will not hold her

6lbs of jelly babies, Mister
A smack ’round yer head son
Her boredom swells
and she is too gone to stop

and prepare for blood’s colour
From foul names and bin-dirty words
he is sent to meet an apology
Rain tips needle him

He’s only a sweet stall keeper –
but a good son to someone
We had lots of fun –
me and Ma – just being alive

Everything was a slow exhale –
his soot trumpet breath blows
He looks baritone to everyone
but she sees a pathetic man-child