Miss Cecily Finch

Miss Finch is dead.

In my day we lived south of the city
A large house, going cheap, and due for demolition.
Her name printed underneath:
Miss Cecily Finch
My house - bought and paid for in hard cash.

Miss Cecily Finch
Had money in the bank.

The house she lived in had a yellow face
The bathroom painted green
The stairs purple like a Roman Mass.
A country lass?
The dying roses in the hall proclaimed her taste.

Miss Cecily Finch
Had found her place.

When we moved in we cleaned the rooms
And swept the roses from the petalled hall
The stairs we painted white, the bathroom red
Miss Finch was dead.
Her portrait, heavy on the nail, we dragged to the basement.

The door locked
On miss Cecily Finch.

A famine week
And Dublin at its greyest peak
Shed tears of anguish for Miss Cecily Finch
Damp in the basement and crying to come out
I heard her shout: My house
Bought and paid for in hard cash.

Miss Cecily Finch
Ripe for demolition.

We set her free
Returned her portrait to the crumbling wall
Saw green grow on the bathroom shelf
And purple cover the stairs.
The dying roses in the street came back to greet
Miss Cecily Finch.

Who was Miss Cecily Finch -
A special case?
Her portrait hangs upon the wall
And dares me shift it from her chosen place.

© Patrick Galvin