Mother's Bed Jacket
In the era of cold bedrooms
Mother needed her bed jacket.
A hot water bottle might serve
only the feet down the far end.
Knitted from lambswool (she said),
the jacket seemed flimsy and light.
Warmth clustered there
(she said) round her shoulders,
till it was time to snuggle down.
She read a little, preparing for sleep.
Father made do with winter pyjamas,
flannelette and striped. Not a reader,
he might still be finishing
the morning paper's crossword.
I would have helped a bit
with anagrams and puns.
There was a faint mystery
about the parental bedroom -
its surfaces kept so clear -
centring on the pale bedspread,
the slight smell of cosmetics.
Children didn't feel quite welcome.
The texture of the bed jacket
recalled a baby's blanket -
in that era of few cuddles,
a child might only brush it briefly.
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