a world gas lit
evening, softly dressed after the harsh day,
her work ended, she would rest
here by the attic window.
Supper was part of her pay,
like her room, the clothes she wore.
she thought herself
one day, perhaps, to light fires,
to clean, to serve a family
of her own; such small desires.
To find love, affection, warmth,
a place to live and be free,
to move to her own order.
© Poets of London