my mum

entry picture

a gentle creature, easily overlooked

as a wild flower in a hedgerow,

a small brown bird in woodland,

overshadowed then, but remembered now

with such fondness.

childhood memories centred on my dad.

his workshop was an adventure where I could

hammer nails into bits of wood,

or the trips to his allotment where bonfires

were rendered explosive with old cans of paint.

and I explored, galumphing through soggy ditches

in my Wellingtons

collecting stones and bones, pretending I was

lyga the stone age witch, who healed the animals.

mum would be left at home.

she could have come.

she could have joined the fun.

now I wish that we’d dragged her along.

I have her powder compact and one sniff

and I’m back with her,

leaning against her legs

at the bus stop, the harsh street light

making her lipstick purple

on our way back from grandma’s.

I’m so tired that I can hardly move.

I look up and see her face against

a dark blue Ealing sky.

my mum was hard to spot, but then,

some people are all talk.

compare the wren’s sweet song

to the peacocks ugly squawk.

so, here’s to my mum,

a beauteous song so softly sung

love you mum x

 

 

 

◄ Bereavement

on walking past our old house at christmas ►

Comments

Steve Smith

Mon 28th Dec 2009 17:23

Ann, the is a wonderful ,moving and may I say well-crafted poem.You have braided memory ,loss,love ...and sound.
Steve Smith

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Dave Bradley

Fri 11th Dec 2009 22:37

Hi Ann

Just found this buried beneath a pile of blogs and love it.

I'm from Harrow originally. When I was growing up, Ealing was an exotic name on the Piccadilly line when travelling in to London. You've got me all nostalgic

Dave

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Alison Mary Dunn

Sun 6th Dec 2009 17:29

Ann, I know just what you mean. I was always a daddy's girl and often the trips to the country involved dad, my brother and I. Mum didn't join in so much in the outdoor activities. You've captured your awareness of your mum so well in your poem. It's so honest and heartfelt. I felt it x

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sat 5th Dec 2009 16:08

Keep writing. Just keep writing such very good poetry.
You might enjoy 'The Last Verse' which I posted months ago.

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Greg Freeman

Sat 5th Dec 2009 08:50

Ann, thanks for sharing this poem with us. I particularly like these lines towards the end ...

"leaning against her legs

at the bus stop, the harsh street light

making her lipstick blue

on our way back from grandma’s.

I’m so tired that I can hardly move.

I look up and see her face against

a dark blue Ealing sky.

my mum was hard to spot, but then,

some people are all talk.

compare the wren’s sweet song

to the peacock's ugly squawk."

Greg

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Ann Foxglove

Sat 5th Dec 2009 06:31

Thanks guys for lovely comments. My mum died over ten years ago and that grief was a normal, gentle sadness. All my angry raging grief poems are for my partner, and he died nearly two years ago. This is probably "too much information" (don't want everyone to be all sorry for me, that's not my intention) just wanted to put my Bereavement poem in context. That's why this one has a held back feel.Yes Stef, she does look lovely doesn't she, and her character was just like her face, gentle, shy and sweet.

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Thaumaturgically Charged

Sat 5th Dec 2009 02:05

Really beautiful Ann, all the way through.
TC X

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Patricia and Stefan Wilde

Fri 4th Dec 2009 22:38

oh Ann! was,nt your Mother beautiful! I honestly think you held back a lot,considering your loss.And what a loss.the poem puts a lovely brave face on your association with her and Dad too-lovely-thanks Stef

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