When her mind throws up
the pink cottage
Baxters rented
for their Easter holidays
(inviting her along to keep
the daughter company)

she feels the shiver
of pre-war bathroom
built up back, away from
the wood-burning stove
and clear views
across to Isle of Wight.

Baxter
followed her up stairs
the morning she planned
to seduce his eldest son
on a cliff top walk.
He sprung the lock

cornered her
by the geyser,
held her hands,
kissed them
with his grey mouth
without her knowing why.

Turning her eyes blind
seemed the easiest option
til she was late.
Her mother found out,
assumed she had seduced
the eldest son: “poor lad

and him in the middle
of his exams.
How can I ever look
Baxters in the eyes again?”
It seemed the easiest option
not to put Mother right.

She was driven to the clinic
which seemed the easiest option
as no one need ever know.
Twenty years later,
Mother takes offence
when she doesn’t eat,

turns up looking grey and squashed
in front of the neighbours:
“when their children
are so normal
and so successful,
especially the eldest son.”

She never puts Mother right
about the pink cottage,
Baxters,
or her life:
she keeps it tightly coiled,
which seems the easiest option.