, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


Yesterday was the sixteenth remembrance of my Mum’s death; she was 65.   She left nothing as memorial or legacy but the let and allow for worlds of words to fructify …



                                                                      June 2006

                                Dear Mum,

                                we haven’t talked for a long time
                                because you are no longer here to

                                hear (… OK), but it gradually
                                occurs to write to ‘you’ who is

                                still part of my every inbreath and
                                ever was for more of those forty

                                years; but I suppose I write
                                because I am lonely here being

                                grown up by myself.   I suppose
                                I am doing a good job – but what

                                unnecessary reaching to have
                                arrived so far, always far from

                                here and old from now and
                                stranger to who I always was;

                                you said I was aloof and difficult
                                to like, and I think I realise now

                                that I ever was and still am, but
                                you always let an allow, wide as

                                a paddock, and a dash of affection
                                despite my awkward being and I

                                think I miss that in life, more, I
                                keep hoping to find it anywhere

                                else but it just can not be found,
                                I am just, and am ever, awkward

                                and quite unclear to like.   And
                                there it is.   Another realisation

                                to exhale and step forward.   Years
                                after you have gone.   Still.

                                love, Mark





allowing wormhole: tag cloud poem II – acceptance
being & breathing & doing & identity & life & realisation wormhole: (another / gulp of air)
death & loneliness wormhole: Desolation Angels
love wormhole: bottom of Herbert Road to the / foot of Eglinton Hill dream
Mum & time wormhole: To my Mum
talking wormhole: dream 260713
writing wormhole: thar she perched