Life is what you make it
/ Nana said / she knew a thing or two about living / born at the fag
end of the century / into just-above poverty / she walked a mile to
church / three times every Sunday / for the salvation of her six-
year-old soul / mealtimes she sat at the big black table / in the
shadow of the family Bible / a thwack across the knuckles /
descended from above / if she opened her mouth to speak / the
oldest child / and the plainest of the girls / age thirteen / she was
already in service / a scullery maid in London’s West End / half a
day off every week / summer or winter / she rose at four / cleared
the grates of last night’s ashes / laid and lit the kitchen fire / hot
water for breakfast / and Her Ladyship’s bath / His Lordship took
coffee and a little kedgeree / never used her name / called her
Pader / once he left a half-crown piece shining like a star in the
hall / Nana stuck the coin to the floor / pretended she knew
nothing about it / His Lordship fumed but then he laughed / never
thought to test her again / a lifetime later / creaking and wheezing /
she taught me how to lay and light a fire / how to crimp the paper /
where to place the kindling / how safest and best to draw the flame
/ Nana said / life was a lot like a fire / much depends on / knowing
the basics / a good fire / she said / shows no fear or favour / it will
never be all about you.
Home Fires
Two Chinese vases took pride of place / in Nana’s best front room /
stern as sentries keeping watch / they framed her leaded grate / to the
right the shell-case / she made in munitions / to the left an empty
scuttle / wrought in brass / next door to that / a set of fire irons she’d
polish till they shone / in the centre the fireplace / with its nest of
kindling / was laid every New Year’s Day / when she’d rise at dawn to
sweep the ash / from our burned-out Christmas fire / the rest of the
year Jack Frost lived there / our words hung in the air / like winter
stars / and a leather sofa with seats so cold / they bit into your bum / it
was a room not for sitting / but looking at / unless the doctor came
/ For him she’d pile the scuttle high / and not begrudge / the match /
Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from Penzance, Cornwall. Her work has appeared in more than two hundred and fifty magazines, journals, and anthologies, including The High Window, Ink Sweat & Tears, Gnashing Teeth, and Fragmented Voices. She was a contributor to Invisible Borders: New Women’s Writing From Cornwall (2020), Morvoren: the poetry of sea-swimming, and the Duff anthology (Dragon Yaffle, 2022).