Ashes

 

Among the ashes and cinders,

in her faded grey apron,

forsaken, unseen,

by those above-stairs,

she was two hands, serving,

invisible, less-than,

carrying trays, cleaning unobtrusively,

keeping everything orderly,

in its place.

She dare not show a sullen face;

she needed her narrow bed,

her pittance, her weekly half-day off.

In truth, she needed much more than that,

but such was not to be
in 1853.

Yet in that narrow bed, she dared

to dream a better dream:

a vine-covered cottage

of her own, primroses along

a winding garden path, perhaps

someone to share stories and smiles

before the fire on a winter's night,

smoke curling up the chimney,
warm lamplight in the glow.

Not too grand a dream, one as humble as

the dreamer. 
Let's hope life granted her this reward
for her humble demeanor.

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