Everything In Its Place

My father drew, painted, pressed clay, carved stone 
into naked feminine shapes with big bums and tiny waists. 
He was practical, too: 
he grew much of our food. 
He pulled nails from reclaimed wood, 
saved metal scraps and screws, 
used them to build, to make tools. 

When I was eight, 
I helped him build a two-room caravan 
from waste: a base for his creations. 
Wood, chisel and clay lived at the front end, 
Hammers, drills and related accoutrements neatly arranged on shelves.
A home-made pottery wheel of his design, powered 
by peddling a recycled bicycle,
sat on the floor next to the workbench.
His photographic studio was at the back
complete with convenient divan and blankets. 

Everything had its place --   all Neatly In Reach. 
When one of his scented women came
-- her waist not that thin, her bum not that big, 
and her painted face never as pretty as in his imagery -- 
we knew 
The Artist Was At Work and we
must turn away. 
When they left, some made a quick getaway, while others 
played innocent, dripping into the kitchen for a quick visit. 
My mother was friendly, polite, never accused, 
never raged or complained:
after all, he had taught her the rules back in the early days.
 
No-one witnessed her pain, 
or noticed she was afraid of her creative betrayer.
She Knew Her Place
 
 
 ©Jane Paterson Basil 

 Written for Word Of The Day Challenge: Practical

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