Mrs Gwendoline Bowles

Lives behind the tenth door

Along Jubilee Terrace

In the greyness of Bury.

Her neighbours know little about her except

That she moved in last year,

And is always polite

With her "how-do-you do's"

And shy smile.

 

At ten every morning

She appears on her step,

Underneath a wool hat

Of sky blue and red.

With a basket she walks to the shops

For a chop,

And a bottle of stout as a treat on a Saturday.

 

If the truth it be told,

The butcher and neighbours

Poke fun at her hat,

Behind her straight back,

And though she hears all the titters

She pays them no heed

As she opens the door,

Head held high,

In Jubilee Terrace.

 

Seven years have gone by

Since her husband's last note

Told of blue skies in Flanders

And acres of poppies,

And though her son never wrote

She expects he'd have seen

The same skies and red fields

As his father.

 

In the greyness of Bury

She wears her wool hat

Of sky blue and red,

And always she will,

For her man

And her boy.