Potential (Poetry)

Her first home wasn’t “cosy” —
austerity ruled that.
Her, her mum and dad — that’s all
no pup or pussy cat.

An only child, not pretty
just an ordinary kid
who never managed to excel
at anything she did.

And yet a neighbour took her
under his kind wing
encouraging, he told her
she could be anything —

anything she wanted.
Perhaps he saw within
a glimpse of her potential —
the fame she’d one day win.

Her parents much too busy
with unexciting lives
to dream or show much interest
in how their daughter thrived

on a meagre post-war diet
when love was rationed still —
her reality lacked all that’s sweet
to coat life’s bitter pill.

But she hung on and remembered
what that kind neighbour said.
She found a better life in books
and read, and read, and read.

Later, when from that cold nest
she’d freed herself and flown
she used the gift she’d nurtured
and wrote books of her own.

Now, in a comfy room she sits
a warm cat on her knee
she writes all day and half the night —
lives quite contentedly.