My Mother’s Poetry
  
 had the structure of housework
 broadcast each day, except Sunday,
 in rigid metre, in pinny and scarf.
  
 No radio presence interrupted
 her contemplation of metaphors,
 her broad sideboard surface the world’s
  
 acres covered in dust and anguish.
 She figured-eighted a yellow duster
 to deal with dust, extinguished
  
 the anguish in small measures
 of listening and compassion,
 an unknown natural healer.
  
 Each day’s dinner preparations
 made her rich ; her casseroles
 of mince and peas and carrots,
  
 bubbling sluggishly in rich gravy,
 made her treasure her
 personal wealth in a poor world.
  
 Cleaning the mess, messing the clean,
 her recipe for good living.
 Small philosophies in a good mind
  
 tamed by family ; each child
 a promise of life after death, 
 each meal a down payment.
  
  
  My Mother’s Art
  
 was cubism in gingham squares,
 lined up so neatly the illusion
 of two planes on a flat surface
  
 puzzled the eyes, caused
 a squint, a closer look, a touch.
 Pin, cut, mark out, pin, tack, sew,
  
 a crisp cotton dress on my back,
 skimming my calves, smelling of sun,
 lemon and white, a uniform defied.
  
 My mother’s art was de Stijl, 
 soft cotton gathered in vertical folds
 on which a map, streets and buildings,
  
 in red and blue and yellow tacks
 appeared, and people made of
 embroidery silk, crossed or dotted
  
 for variety; my mother never heard
 of Mondrian but, in a broad way,
 could boogie with needle and silk.
  
   ‘Cousin’ Cyril

 Just once he brought Aunt Rose
 in his dull green Morris Minor,
 like a proper chauffeur,
 opening her door, 
 offering an arm,
 not quite tipping his forelock
 but walking two steps behind.
  
 He was handsome, soft spoken,
 soft footed,watchful all the time.
 We sisters bristled for no reason
 we knew, sensed an actor
 in full fussing flow; he knew it,
 eye-flashed us a clear warning  
 Don’t get in my way. Don’t upstage me.
  
 He charmed the two women,
 my mother, my Aunt Rose.
 Is that what ‘simpering’ was - 
 two grown women writhing,
 hands clasped, shoulders twisting ?
 He praised the biscuits, the teapot,
 the furniture, the view, the women.
  
 When he said he was emigrating,
 described his prospects,
 Aunt Rose shuddered,
 My mother was envious,
 we sisters raised a silent cheer,
 ‘Good riddance’ we mouthed
 across the littered tea table
  
 Did we know, guess he was gay ?
 Years later, when Aunt Rose died,
 leaving her pearls and brooches to Mother,
 she told us that Cyril had got the money,
 That Church of England, Conservative
 Aunt Rose had bankrolled Cyril the gay teacher
 which redeemed her, if not him, in our eye
  
 Three Toy Shops 
  
 Malta - 1950s
  
 Down the curving marble stairway,
 two doors down Prince of Wales Road,
 three steps up to a cavern of kites
 hanging like technicolour bats,
 tails bundled up in an elastic band.
 I stood, a child of nine, silent in wonder, 
 imagining such a community
 or kites must come alive each closing time
 and fly up into the Mediterranean sky
 there to share the night with bats and swifts,
 before hanging again, swinging slightly,
 in the shop. 
  
 Edinburgh 1980s
  
 Blimey - a toy shop
 with a resident child psychologist.
 Serious business, play - not to be
 wasted, not to be noisy, not to be pointless.
 Serious young assistants demonstrate
 the worthy wooden toys which are :
 age-appropriate, develop fine motor skills,
 improve hand-to-eye co-ordination.
  
 In the corner, by the exit, two five year olds
 have found a packing box waiting for disposal.
 It is, at the moment, a castle but will over the time
 the adults confer, become a ship, a lorry and a cage.
 
  Castle Douglas 2018
  
 We have had to be fierce, it has taken some time
 to be rid of the pink for Princesses, the blue of toys for boys,
 we have mostly failed, but for a few exceptions where
 a toy shop lights up the minds of child and adult with
 the multi-coloured, multi-cultured, multi-inspirational
 piles and shelves and boxes of things too many to list.
 Go there, take your children, take your grandchidren,
 wallow in their excitement, remember your own. 

Vivien Jones lives on the north Solway shore in Scotland. She has two poetry collections and two short story collections in print, numerous inclusions in national and international anthologies, and has had work broadcast on Radio Scotland and Radio 4. In the last two years her focus has been on writing short plays (for which she won a national award) working with actors and directors to bring them to performance. She is one of three editors of Southlight literary magazine which is created in the south-west of Scotland where she lives. She is a Literature Ambassador for the Wigtown Book Festival Company, helping to make things happen on the literary scene and a frequent organiser of creative writing workshops in museums and galleries. When not writing she is a renaissance musician, playing and performing mainly on viols and recorders. Her most recent project is a collaboration with the Gracefield Art Gallery in Dumfries, leading a writing group responding with new texts inspired by artwork created in the last 70 years by women artists – the resulting exhibition of art and texts is open until August 24th.
e-mail : vivien@freeola.comFacebook : https://www.facebook.com/vivien.jones1?
fref=ts&ref=br_tfwww.vivienjones.indowww.southlight.ukwriters.net
www.thegallowayconsort.co,uk

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