The Artist

she was a goddess
curator of memories
an image shaper
a former of creation
she painted in our attic

I stood on a chair
to get a better look at 
the strange visitor
standing by our garden pond
shaking hands with mum and dad.

Plaited in her hair
a weave of tiny mirrors 
catching the sun’s rays
sent out coded messages
like in Secret Seven books.

I felt let down at
suppertime when Dad told me
she was not a spy
but just a ‘modern artist’
renting one of our attics.

I did not know love,
what it was or what it is,
but the artist woke
something in my soul before 
I even knew I had one.

Three small flights above 
a vibrant world lay waiting 
for me to explore. 
An escape from school day grey,
On The Buses. Beans on toast.

I crept the staircase
wanting a keyhole glimpse of 
that magical place.
Her paintings filled the landing.
I knocked a couple over.

The door burst open, 
“Do not touch! Don’t speak! Sit down!”
I found a corner,
“Do you like jazz?” I nodded, 
hoping ‘jazz’ meant chocolate.

Ella Fitzgerald
wept from the artist’s Dansette,
“… I die a little…”
The artist wept too. Gentle 
tearing splashing her palette.

My three favourites:
a Scarborough holiday,
gazing at the sea 
through a rain running window
daughter beside her, sulking.

Visiting Grandma; 
wearing a black Sunday dress
uncomfortably
sitting on a stiff backed chair
dunking éclairs, drinking tea.

A derelict house;
(I reckon her childhood home)
behind its crumbling
facade she captured a sense  
of yesterday’s glory days,  

the births, weddings, fights,
home-comings and funerals.
World Wars One and Two.
It outlived them all. Until
the day of the wrecking ball.

The artist moved out, 
dumped her keys in a fruit bowl. 
Mum and Dad have gone, 
lying in adjoining plots.
Not one of them said, ‘goodbye’.