Martin Armstrong: Miss Thompson goes shopping

In her lone cottage on the downs,

With winds and blizzards and great crowns Of shining cloud, with wheeling plover And short grass sweet with the small white clover, Miss Thompson lived, correct and meek,

A lonely spinster, and every week On market-day she used to go Into the little town below,

Tucked in the great downs’ hollow bowl Like pebbles gathered in a shoal.

So, having washed her plates and cup And banked the kitchen-fire up,

Miss Thompson slipped upstairs and dressed,

Put on her black (her second best),

The bonnet trimmed with rusty plush,

Peeped in the glass with simpering blush,

From camphor-smelling cupboard took Her thicker jacket off the hook Because the day might turn to cold.

Then, ready, slipped downstairs and rolled The hearthrug back ; then searched about,

Found her basket, ventured out,

Snecked the door and paused to lock it And plunge the key in some deep pocket.

Then as she tripped demurely down The steep descent, the little town Spread wider till its sprawling street Enclosed her and her footfalls beat On hard stone pavement, and she felt Those throbbing ecstasies that melt Through heart and mind, as, happy, free,

Her small, prim personality

Merged into the seething strife Of auction-marts and city life.

Serenely down the busy stream Miss Thompson floated in a dream.

Now, hovering bee-like, she would stop Entranced before some tempting shop,

Getting in people’s way and prying At things she never thought of buying :

Now wafted on without an aim,

Until in course of time she came To Watson’s bootshop. Long she pries At boots and shoes of every size 

Brown football-boots with bar and stud For boys that scuffle in the mud,

And dancing-pumps with pointed toes Glossy as jet, and dull black bows ;

Slim ladies’ shoes with two-inch heel And sprinkled beads of gold and steel ‘ How anyone can wear such things ! 

On either side the doorway springs (As in a tropic jungle loom Masses of strange thick-petalled bloom And fruits mis-shapen) fold on fold A growth of sand-shoes rubber-soled, Clambering the door-posts, branching, spawning Their barbarous bunches like an awning Over the windows and the doors.

But, framed among the other stores,

Something has caught Miss Thompson’s eye (O worldliness [ O vanity !),

A pair of slippers — scarlet plush.

Miss Thompson feels a conscious blush Suffuse her face, as though her thought Had ventured further than it ought.

 

Martin Armstrong