bungalow clad in a tartan dressing gown
A shadow of the irascible man who only wore
through back and front door, into the lounge.
My mother lives dangerously in her dotage:
she wears crimson high-heeled hostess mules,
replete with a tacky feather trim. We listen out for them:
clickety-clack, clickety-clack. It signals Scarlet O’ Hara
from her bedroom to the relative safety of her hall.
They do not flatter her early morning attire:
a long sleeved, full length high-necked nightdress,
but the colour matches her hostess robe.
And her flaming aspirations are still red hot.
© Sophia Roberts
All rights reserved