Martha

So a couple of weeks ago, temporarily back in Girton chapel, I had the pleasure of listening to a sermon by the lovely Di Stretton on the Biblical character Martha, which reminded me irresistably of a poem I wrote a year or so ago in celebration - or perhaps defence - of all the wonderful Marthas we all know, without whom the little things in life just wouldn't get done.


Dirty saucers. Damp teatowels.
The steady drip-drip-drip of drying plates on the draining board
as you pray for strength, head in hands,
in a kitchen that isn’t yours.

Kat couldn’t do Tuesdays, so you covered instead –
put out the biscuits, the chairs, the cat,
drew up rotas, tidied up upstairs,
let the flower-arrangers in when they came at one,
locked up behind us when we left
and then went home to get the dinner on.

Tomorrow – the same.
find a bunch of flowers for a suffering friend
- cancer, poor dear, we’ll keep her in our prayers -
sweep the kitchen floor and the leaves off the drive,
do the Sainsburys’ run, give Mum a call,
and look up flight-times for your daughter’s plane.

Your life defined by the whistle of the kettle;
Rhythmed by the clink-clink-clink of teaspoons against the side of mugs.
And though our unkind inactions told you otherwise, you kept your faith
that all of life still boils down to love.