Tuesday, 1 November 2016

in shock

in shock
            to the memory of my mother

you died.
as ever
the waves
came in
in sleep
that volcanic
hill above
the shore
wore morning
sun in the
wet on the
one flank
nothing changed
yet all of
sight whatever
the senses
brought had
somewhere a
mountain fallen
and you knew it
a range had
lost a mountain
the ocean
short a wave.

the sewing
machine hand
or treadle
turned i'd
watch you
pushing through
the cloth
before the wide
window the
needle dipping
down and
up the
birds out
on the
lawn starlings
mostly pushing
beaks down
amongst grass
sewing on that
old machine
what kept
me at your
side your
hand that
cloth wheel
and needle
birds bobbing.

                       november 2012

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