A group of elderly women

In Marks and Spencer, Cardiff, 

Enjoying their teas and coffees, 

Nibbling at tasty shapes of cake. 

They laugh as they share their photos. 

One tells of a son now living in London, 

While another says her new neighbours 

Are noisy and that their garden is overgrown. 

One admires another’s permed hair

And informs her that she doesn't look eighty. 

Two of them confess they are putting on weight. 

A thin lady admits to a night’s tot of brandy, 

A mask of makeup softens her wrinkles. 

Memories surface like fussy fish in a pond, 

Their conversations dart from one thing to the other, 

Their language is grey, their language is sunny. 

Ten Welsh women out for the morning. 

No-one mentions a husband: are they widows?

I imagine them leaving their homes earlier, 

Shutting their doors and turning their keys, 

Locking in loneliness until they return. 

Peter Thabit Jones © 2022

Published in PATERSON LITERARY REVIEW (USA), 2022