She sits upon a chair, a rug around her knees
and smiles at strangers entering her little room,
they ask before they polish stuff, she answers, 'Please'
and nods as they admire her daffodils in bloom.
One cleaner mops the floor, another dusts a shelf
and flicks the duster over faded photographs,
he glances at a pretty lady, says, 'Yourself?'
She nods. 'You haven't changed,' he lies. She laughs.
The cleaners' work is done, she thanks them with a grin.
Alone: her room is clean and silent...as the grave,
she presses 'play' and hums along with Vera Lynne,
and views her sailor's picture: Clarence was so brave.
Her life in black and white: a bride, a mother, widow, gran.
She sighs and tells the pictures: 'Yes I'm still the same: just Anne.'
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.