Martha

Dirty saucers.  Damp teatowels.

The steady drip-drip-drip of drying plates on the draining board

as you pray for strength, head in hands,

in a kitchen that isn’t yours.

Kat couldn’t do Tuesdays, so you covered instead—

put out the biscuits, the chairs, the cat,

drew up rotas, tidied up upstairs,

let the flower-arrangers in when they came at one,

locked up behind us when we left

and then went home to get the dinner on.

Tomorrow—the same.

find a bunch of flowers for a suffering friend

—cancer, poor dear, we’ll keep her in our prayers—

sweep the kitchen floor and the leaves off the drive,

do the Sainsburys’ run, give Mum a call,

and look up flight-times for your daughter’s plane.

Your life defined by the whistle of the kettle;

Rhythmed by the clink-clink-clink of teaspoons against the side of mugs.

And though our unkind inactions told you otherwise, you kept your faith

that all of life still boils down to love.