MATILDA LAING

MATILDA LAING

Matilda dines alone

in a house full of dust

and memories washed down

with a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape.

Bonnie and Clyde sit under the table,

scratching their fleas and waiting for

a morsel to drop at their paws

before retreating to the ailing Aga

that doesn’t quite hold its fire.

They see off the disgruntled cat

who sprints the stairs and nestles in

the cosy airing cupboard that houses

fusty candlewicks that welcomed

new kittens into the world and carry

the stains.

After Coronations Street and Emmerdale

she treads the stairway of threadbare Axminster

overlooked by fearsome

ancestors regaled in splendour.

From her window she looks at the moon

and sighs, she hates being old, hates being alone

with her memories and a wardrobe full of

satin ball gowns with waspish waists.

She unclips a hair clasp and a tumble of silver hair

falls round her shoulders caressing her drooping breasts.

The waist is still visible, the tummy still taut

enough to fit the jodhpurs that lie over the chair

waiting for her attention tomorrow morning

when she rides up the meadow,

Bonnie and Clyde in pursuit,

until Heston snorts to a halt in Bluebell wood.

Edward Jackson stands smiling,

his tweed jacket with torn pockets

sports a battered rose in the lapel,

as he doffs his cap and holds out a caring hand to

his very own rose who slides from the saddle

and into his waiting arms,

ridiculously in love,

amazingly happy,

undoubtedly old.