On The Parish.

On The Parish
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She clutches her thin coat around, too short to cover up bare knees
A cut-off from her mother's coat never meant for winter's freeze
A chill wind sends her rags a rustle seeps into her very bones
Not an ounce of fat upon her but she stifles every moans.

For today she has an errand something that she needs to do
A weekly task that needs her courage a lengthy wait inside a queue.
All around her adults jostle trying to push her out of place
Faces pinched with cold and hunger has no time for social grace.

In one hand she holds on tightly, the coins that jingle in her purse
In the other grasps a basket, worn and battered by frequent use.
Still she holds her ground so fiercely a lot depends on her today
She's become adept at bargaining though it hurts to be this way.

Once her home was bright and cheerful, once were carpets on the floor
Vaguely she remembers mother dressed in finery go out the door.
Then the house got dark and gloomy, a stranger slept upon a bed
Hands like claws she swung so gently never feeling any dread.

Then one day the curtains drawn, her mother wept tore our her hair,
In the room the bed was empty, stunk of sickness and despair.
Now she knows it was her father, died with shrapnel in his heart,
Though comforted by both her sisters, still her mother fell apart.

All her treasured things were taken sold to pay the bills and rent
Until at last there was no money, every single farthing spent.
With no husband and three children what could her poor mother do?
Whispered words about the parish broke her mother's heart in two.

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Hours later tired and cold she turns around and limps to home
But her heart is light with gladness for the bounty that's her own.
For a while there's food and shelter something to make mother smile
Shouldering the heavy basket now at last she feels worthwhile.

From the butcher came some scrag ends a little meat to make a stew
A plump cabbage, carrots, onions, a twist of tea to make a brew.
A nice fresh loaf, some stale bread to make a pudding, what a feast!
She saved by buying old potatoes, bought some flour and some yeast.

Some margarine, a little sugar, condensed milk to water down
The butcher slipped her some beef dripping, that would make mother frown.
Real eggs would be a luxury, how she wished the price would drop
But she has a treat for mother, bruised oranges from the grocers shop.

Laying down her heavy burden she greets her sisters straight from school
How she wishes she could join them but it's against the doctors rule.
A birth defect left her weak and puny so she taught herself to read
Pouring over the family bible her thirst for knowlede her biggest need.

The fire is low, the scuttle empty, just enough to make some toast,
How she'd love a roaring fire and set her feet up there to roast.
But wishes cannot solve a problem this is what she understands
Beggars cannot be the choosers; the answer lies in her own hands.

Gathering up an empty sack she takes one sister on the chore,
The other stays behind with mother, prepares a meal for one day more.
This is how they keep on going every deed a brave pretence
Pride sustains their mother's sanity, her own form of self-defence.

From the coal yard runs a railway taking coal to send away
All the profit for the owners', men with power that they betray
Miner's blood stain deep the coffers greed is all they understand
While they rape and plunder nature never thinking of the land.

All along the steep embankment lies a trail of coke and coal
In the quiet of the evening this becomes the paupers goal.
Here the sisters work in silence scrabbling for something to burn
Lumps and fragments quickly taken for tonight there's no return.

Blackened, grubby knees are scraped hands sore and nails broken
But the sisters know their duty now no words are to be spoken.
Hasten to wash in icy water, gather around the fire's glow.
Bread and dripping eaten quickly, mugs of tea are sipped so slow.

She's said her prayers and now she cuddles sharing warmth her sister sleeps
Warn out by a day of struggle, now at last she gently weeps.
Every day seems like a hurdle, how she needs a day of rest
But they're living on the parish; will they always come second best?

© Lisa Fuller Feb 2006.