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Visiting time

 

I hold her ninety year old hand,
Bruised from the cannulas;
I can see my mum’s thin skin
No longer hides the blood within.
I stroke her hair and think of her
Comforting me when I was the boy
Who ran into her lap spouting blood,
A brush attached to my skull,
With a large rusty nail. 
From then on, I wanted my hair
Cut short enough to reveal the scar. 
And now as we sit together, equably,
I let the tides of memory wash over me.
Our love, so often unspoken, is real
And true, and will just have to do, for now.

◄ Saying goodbye

GENOCIDE ►

Comments

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John Botterill

Wed 22nd Dec 2021 23:25

Truly fabulous John. I am seeing my 92 year old mother tomorrow and I will think of this poem! Thanks.
John

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Stephen Gospage

Tue 21st Dec 2021 17:05

An honest, heartfelt poem, John. It brought back sad but uplifting memories for me.

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keith jeffries

Mon 20th Dec 2021 23:49

As it should be John. Bless her.
Thank you
Keith

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Stephen Atkinson

Mon 20th Dec 2021 20:22

Beautiful, John

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