Four Women
Four women stand on a gravel path With an ivied wall behind, My pretty mother, my granny, my gran (The two old ladies didn't get on But I didn't know that) and Auntie Cath, My mother's Scottish friend.
There's me, fat-legged. I've one hand held In Mummy's, and the other Is tugging poor granny right out of square While gran stands straight as a brigadier And Auntie Cath cradles a new-born child Who is possibly my brother.
This possible brother is swathed in lace Which might be a christening gown. We were churchy people, and Auntie Cath Godmothered this mite in his lacy froth, If it is my brother. Her plain, sweet face Is canted smiling down.
Women and children are timelessly Cocooned in light: my mother, Her time so short, the two old trout And my stepmother (funny how things turn out), All of them dead. Now there's only me And the baby. If that's my brother.
John Whitworth
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