‘Ellen, you’ll not marry him!’ / ‘But I love him, Mummy.’

‘You must love me more!’ Silence hung with the green

velvet curtains, the Victorian grandmother clock

clanged eight hours, the voluptuous sofa prepared, again,

to comfort a tearful Ellen into cushioned arms. Peggy

marched the loomed floor, her stride considered the matter

over, but Ellen’s tiny voice hummed the warm furnishings,

‘I love him, Mummy, and I want to marry him, that’s all.’

Peggy spun round, her voice sliced the air like a scythe,

‘That’s all. That’s all. After all I’ve done for you.

Do you think I’m going to let you ruin your life

by marrying a…darkie, a…nigger-man? You silly girl.

I have sacrificed my whole life for you. How cruel!

How could you do this to me, your own mother!’

Peggy gulped a scream down, balled fist to open mouth,

a Greek tragi-mask, then fled the room, stomped upstairs,

slammed her bedroom door, and bawled the house down.

GOSSIPING locals are incensed. A nigger! A darkie!

is whispered over hedges, over counters, at Mass.

An African, cannibal, savage, monkey, heathen,

a thing from outer space. Goodness Gracious No.

Tongues slather, heads gyrate, fingers shake.

His colour will come off on the sheets, p’raps she can

scrub him white, they have tails, you know,

live in mud huts, swing from trees, were idol-worshippers

till we civilised them. For the love of God, whatever

has possessed the girl? Has she no sense of shame, no modesty?

A dark one, they mutter. Dark! Dark! Dark!

No good will come of this, you mark my words.

It’s scandalous, it is. Bring the girl to her senses.

Think of the poor children, half-breeds, mongrels.

It’s not right bringing them into the world, it isn’t.

Oh yes, there she goes, out to meet him. Quick, turn off

the light so she can’t see us. Brazen hussy!

Slut! Look at her, trotting along without a care,

who does she think she is, Lady Bleedin’ Docker?

For the love of God someone help her see the light.

SKY RIPS it sagging grey hymen with a fingernail,

tanks thunder over Plumstead Common towards No 31.

War is declared by Peggy, self-appointed Chief-of-Staff,

who summons her loyal officers to Army H.Q., briefs

them on her offspring’s ignoble insurrection, then

debates how to curtail then corral the wayward Ellen.

Violet flicks ash with contempt for the selfish young.

Dora berates herself for sowing wildness into the girl.

Jacob runs olive fingers through knowing black curls,

and Leslie, reluctant right hand to Napoleon, is more

concerned with the mould in his John Playered throat.

Sky drips onto the tidy rippled roofs of Manton Rd,

aproned wives scurry into gardens to unpeg gymnastic

washing, Peggy trembles thin beige liquid from the trunk

of pregnant china just as God’s tears orchestrate

percussive music outside, and two transparent globules