The Lady In The Council House (Poetry)

Her mansion was a red brick box
two up two down
she wore a beaver coat — not fox
too posh for town.

She had no maid, no cook, no one
to boss about
no ride to hounds — see how they run
obey her shout.

Her plain brick semi grim as jail
its cells so small
and ill-proportioned — air held stale
she loathed it all.

The neighbours common — working class
no breeding there
she blanked them when she swept on past
just let them stare.

Reduced to welfare real estate
a shoebox home
a weedy lawn — a wooden gate
a post-war clone

like all the others in the street
anathema
she yearned for that grand country seat
they stole from her.

The lady in the council house
grew old and grey
lived fragile as some poor church mouse
and pined away.