Anyone for a Spot of Poetry?



I tiptoe through the bedrooms

As though not meaning to wake

It’s still

At rest

Cold and quiet.

Pretty glass things on her dressing table

Are familiar yet foreign

Obediently not touching

But the barrier is now officially broken 

I have to paw through her precious pieces

No tea and cake

No telling of secrets or future

My youngling roots will be ripped up with this 70’s patterned carpet 

There is a pretty pink bottle

That proved me a deceitful child

I spray it again

Fat droplets of betrayal

The mist on my upturned face

Smells like flowers. 

And not like nan’s house at all.

The Making of a Mother


I’m not sure I loved you enough.

I wasn’t feeling my best. I wasn’t myself. Didn’t get a good head start.

Maybe if I was fully here, fully rested, I would have been a better mama. I would have. I couldn’t think, only feel. I was so Raw and so were you. So new and sacred and susceptible.

I wrapped you up I did. I wrapped you up every day. Wrapped you to me. Nobody could reach in. You cried and cried. I cried. We wrapped and we cried. Us two. So new. So vulnerable. Strong.

And it seems long ago now, just as they said it would. Now I sleep the days are more fun. I’m fully here now. I can help you much better now. I commit the moments to memory.

I’m not sure.

The man at the park gave you a pound. I put it in your money box. The exact pound. But it was the delight in his eyes at you that was the magic. Surrounded us in those first years. Enveloped us like a sparkling gold cape. It must have been magic.

Did I delight in you enough?

I’m not sure.

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