Newspapers, leaflets, unopened bills,

Pressing on windows, crowding the sills,

Bags of all kinds, products for cleaning,

Piles of containers, dangerously leaning.

Thirteen years since her husband had died,

For thirteen long years she’d let it all slide,

Her home had her beaten, as hard she tried,

And the clutter continued to pile up inside.

Dusters and buckets and scourers and brooms,

Stuffed into cupboards, filling the rooms,

Cartons of clothing, boxes of hats,

Broken TV screens, thirteen stray cats.

Proposers of well-meant solutions would find

That she’d hear them with patience, expression resigned,

Then their offers of help would be firmly declined,

With a smile that hid the frustration behind.

Hearing aid chargers, spectacle cases,

Packets of food in unlikely places,

Folders of photographs, pictureless frames,

Box upon box of incomplete games.

And in the midst of the jumbled and chaotic scene,

Were cartons of teabags, tray placed between,

Where the teapot and teacups were always kept clean,

The large kettle spotless, the milk jug pristine.

A lifetime of diaries, journals and books,

Pushed into every cranny and nook,

Grandchildren’s paintings, holiday posters,

Mismatched champagne flutes, too many coasters.

And the widow would pick her way through the piles,

And offer refreshments, warm words and warm smile,

She’d pour from the teapot, old-fashioned style,

And we’d drink and we’d laugh and we’d chat for a while.

Broken recorders, violins with no strings,

Discarded necklaces, bracelets and rings,

Baskets of unused electrical cables,

Permanent chaos, occasional tables.

The sofa would sag and was covered in fluff,

But she’d listen with kindness when my times were rough,

The table would groan under mountains of stuff,

And she never complained that her life was tough,

A tea and a chat -

Every weekend.

Enough.