She was never ready
when we called,
always went
to her front room,
opened a wardrobe door
on darkness
and a smell I now know
was camphor, reached inside
for her black coat,
black boots,
hooked the coat hanger
on the kitchen door,
dipped into each pocket
for a mothball
round as a gobstopper,
sat in her own chair
to put on her boots;
when I was a child
eternity
was a summer day
watching
a black lace
snake, cross, loop
slowly
up the front
of Bridgie’s knee high boots.
