MRS. MOUNTER CIRCA.1914
You have seen them come and go: the salesmen,
stevedores, undergraduates and tinkers,
lorn veterans of Omdurman and Colenso,
the struggling artist with his curious hours;
all passing through the widow’s breach of spare
room. Your years lived impasto – caked-on,
palpable as Sunday Best – are rendered boldly,
dealing only in certainty, creed and nation,
dealing solidly in bricks and mortar
and the definite vertical of the doorway
that frames you as you sit, impassive
as the teapot, immovable as the rent.
Outside the world turns to mud, feeds its sons
to fire and lead and names you will hear
for the first time: Passchendaele, Somme, Ypres, Mons….
