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