The brave mums

Headlong ten force gales
Driving rain
The baby wails
The sun refuses to rise
Knuckles white
on the pram
head on the rails
so crawl the snails
of the morning cold Grey
bright is forbidden
the earl luke warm, cruel, windswept
the best kept secret
her bravery
a pram pushing
ushered morning
uphill
a colour run visage
struck with rain
a fragile frame of a face
the pram wheel bearings
race
she dives for cover
a bus shelter embrace
dayglo metal cold no empty space
inside
and strikes a pose , facial
anticipating kindness
yet
no one donates
and the I-pod bleats oblivious
adolescent
and in tow her baby
she makes her face in the window
steam, water streams down
droplets
rotating wheels the droning bus
she recalls childhood window pane
games, the fuss of her own mum
and now she is burdened with protection
the reflection is aging
parental toll rages on
a brave mum
a future mother
of fly the nest sons
on course
to the concourse
the basket case battle grounds
the money saving things for one pound
of currency
traipsing successful
truly brave
and when disengaged
and safely home
with feet up on the phone
she pours it out
for lucky her, a man
with a cochlea spout of an ear
clasps a hand.




Pete Crompton (c) 2007