Rose

was an old lady who used so much rouge that they had to build a rouge factory near to her house to keep her supplied. To supply the factory, they needed to have copious quantities of iron oxide, aka rust.  To get enough rust, they had to bring in cars from Russia, which they would leave to weather on Dartmoor during the winter, then bring to the factory to rub and harvest the rust. Her nephew, who was well-read, quoted Beerbohm: ‘That lovely mask of enamel with its shadows of pink and tiny pencilled veins, what must lurk behind it? Of what treacherous mysteries may it not be the screen? Does not the heathen lacquer her dark face, and the harlot paint her cheeks, because sorrow has made them pale?’ Rose laughed, tickled, her fingers finding and telling rosaries on the well-stroked compact in her overall pocket.

Geraldine Clarkson was shortlisted in the Arvon International Poetry Competition 2010 and was a Writers’ Centre Norwich Escalator winner 2011.  She has two poems in This Line is Not for Turning: An Anthology of Contemporary British Prose Poetry (Cinnamon Press).

(Rose has been previously published on a handkerchief as part of an exhibition at London Printworks)