mother (7)

I see mother, see your forgetful mind

has forgotten me now but not as I was

in the days of spring then summer

when the grass beneath my feet

entered through the skin into the veins

traveling up through the body’s secret passages

into the heart and mind. I see mother

 

the confusion in your eyes –

who is this old man before you now?

You see the child who plays in your garden

toys and sticks forming a world

amongst flowers and insects, his knees

bare beneath the legs of his shorts, dirty again,

his eyes bright with creation. I see mother

 

my old man voice startles you

until it manages clumsily

to take you back to the voice

that called out from the snare of a nightmare

or sang in that familiar kitchen

and laughed at your playful tricks

when April the First came around every year.

 

When I hold your hand mother

I watch as you look down and even your hand

is a stranger, until memory slips away the veil

and now your hand, the larger of the two,

holds mine as we stand at the street’s edge

watching carefully the cars pass

so we can cross to buy dinner for the family.

 

And where once when I was little

and we were on an outing, pancake

and tea at Coles that does not exist anymore,

you held me when the diesel train screeched,

unstopping through the station –

now I fear you hear a screech and my offer

of comfort is dismal and inadequate.

 

Leaving then, as I must,

leaving then, knowing you will forget 

this moment, knowing each time I drive 

away the distance is such

that I can never truly bridge the gap

but must watch it grow ever larger

in your fading, sad eyes.

 

I want you to know I remember also

when you were young and I

was younger still, when the world

spun easily and the days

were strung up in the brightest sun

like freshly washed clothes

upon the revolving clothesline.