The Iron Lady and I.
Poky mid terrace back kitchen,
nightfall of Thatcher's Britain,
lost in a small Welsh town,
Carmarthen nineteen ninety.
I live out my homesick pain
with iron and sweet starch spray.
Of gas fire hiss and media murmur
and rain slashed on grimy glass,
of politics and era's end,
in lonely oblivion I labour.
Words rise from whisper to roar,
to fill a dingy night with colour.
Fading icon pauses to gaze
tears trapped within her eyes.
And suddenly I am held
by quiet calm after rampant storm,
by a pause before curtain fall.
One final closing door upon
my childhood innocence.
I listen for a tolling bell
to roll out across the gloom
and all I hear
is ssshhh of steam
and all I smell is starch.
© Berenice Dunford 2004
In 1990, at the age of nineteen, I left home to seek independence and streets of gold. Independence was bought with coins of loneliness and the streets of a small Welsh town bore cracked paving slabs. All around political Britain was heaving its shoulders with change. Then, as now, I gave it only a cursory glance. But small happenings filter through, brought back to me with sounds and smells.
The smell evoking this moment of history, is a particular brand of spray on starch, the name of which eludes me now. I was introduced to it after a struggle to iron an obstinate white, linen blouse. For a year or so I used this product and then moved on. I don't even know if it exists any more. But should I come across that sweet, clean fragrance it would be as the reunion of two old friends.
