Saturday mornings at my mother's house
Were always a special occasion.
Where cups of strong tea, and superstitions
Punctuated the endless comings and goings
Of the milkman,
Coalman, and steady stream
Of insurance agents,
Whose weekly payments
Along with the piece
Of lucky coal
She kept in her purse
Protected us
From life's impending disasters.
Arriving with the regularity
Of British rail,
Each rat-a-tat-tat
Of the front door knocker
Was a unique signature
Recognizable only to my mother,
That signalled a visit
To the mantlepiece
Where insurance books
Whose pages were filled
With insurance agents initials
Confirming years of payments
Made on time
Were arranged in anticipated order.

Each spring
The rhythm
Of arrival and expectation
Would be rudely broken
By the annual visit
Of invading Romanys
Selling sprigs of lucky heather
From large cane baskets
That hung over
Strong weathered arms,
As snotty nosed kids
With dirty faces
Pulled on
Drab coloured dresses for attention.
One particular spring
My mother
Short of money
Turned them away
And received a gypsy curse
That she worried about for years,
Spending each spring
Peeking through
Carefully arranged lace curtains
In fear
Before answering
The front door
Turning off lights
While we hid in the kitchen,
My mother clutching
Her piece of lucky coal
Listening silently until
Rattling door knockers and romany cries
Disappeared into the distance.