The Spinster, Late of this Parish

Light green crocodile skin –
her handbag, from an age
of Greta Garbo – real
silk-stockings with seams...
and paraffin stoves.

She took it everywhere;
suffering from dementia,
as she was when she came here –
never forgotten, not even then.

Upstairs, downstairs,
it was always with her,
at her side; either by her bed
or at her feet by a chair
with its less than discrete
incontinence pad.

When she finally passed on,
no family left alive,
I felt I was intruding...
delving deep inside her heart,
as I tipped the contents out.

A cheque-book with its pen
she hadn’t used for years,
an empty purse, a dog-eared
diary, an ancient telegram...
its paper – wafer thin,
a lipstick, minus lid

and a letter, plus a photo
of some soldier...
‘Yours, ever, Frank’,
it was signed...dated
nineteen-forty-five.

The faded moire-silk lining
smelt of Sinatra and Sobrani –
of ‘Evenings in Paris’; of love,
and pain and wartime. Of the day
her fiancé died.