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