05-02-2015, 07:07 AM
Mum’s Stained Glass
You remembered you’d missed your early morning cuppa
when I asked the hour I was born, to start my star chart.
Child bearing and birthing came easy to you. Six kids
in eight years, tumbled together, a litter of pups.
Summers bottling fruit, making jams and chutney
so the kitchen cupboards filled with stained glass.
A child of the Depression throws nothing away;
plastic, paper, you never know when you’ll need it.
My letters arrived, through love and loss and laziness,
from other countries and different marriages.
I found them in a suitcase while packing up your house.
Here we are again together, at the other end of life.
No words arrive now. You no longer recognize me.
You smile at whoever brings you a cup of tea.
You remembered you’d missed your early morning cuppa
when I asked the hour I was born, to start my star chart.
Child bearing and birthing came easy to you. Six kids
in eight years, tumbled together, a litter of pups.
Summers spent bottling fruit, making jams and chutney
so the kitchen cupboards filled with stained glass.
A child of the Depression throws nothing away;
plastic, paper, you never know when you’ll need it.
I wrote to you, through love and loss and laziness,
from other countries, and different marriages.
I found my letters in a suitcase while packing you up.
Now we are together again, at the other end of life,
my words don’t arrive. You don’t understand.
You’re very tired, making your own way home.
You remembered you’d missed your early morning cuppa
when I asked the hour I was born, to start my star chart.
Child bearing and birthing came easy to you. Six kids
in eight years, tumbled together, a litter of pups.
Summers bottling fruit, making jams and chutney
so the kitchen cupboards filled with stained glass.
A child of the Depression throws nothing away;
plastic, paper, you never know when you’ll need it.
My letters arrived, through love and loss and laziness,
from other countries and different marriages.
I found them in a suitcase while packing up your house.
Here we are again together, at the other end of life.
No words arrive now. You no longer recognize me.
You smile at whoever brings you a cup of tea.
You remembered you’d missed your early morning cuppa
when I asked the hour I was born, to start my star chart.
Child bearing and birthing came easy to you. Six kids
in eight years, tumbled together, a litter of pups.
Summers spent bottling fruit, making jams and chutney
so the kitchen cupboards filled with stained glass.
A child of the Depression throws nothing away;
plastic, paper, you never know when you’ll need it.
I wrote to you, through love and loss and laziness,
from other countries, and different marriages.
I found my letters in a suitcase while packing you up.
Now we are together again, at the other end of life,
my words don’t arrive. You don’t understand.
You’re very tired, making your own way home.