A conversation with my mother
The improbable displays on your window sills
The flowering cacti bursting into bloom
Cyclamens, your favourites, and the amaryllis
That I would would buy, as a present, each Christmas
A spike of optimism, waiting to explode
If you were green-fingered it was merely because
You loved things and looked after them, patiently,
Without judgment or reservation. That was your way
You had not been loved enough yourself
Yours was a perfect love. That's why people loved you
You were a collector. You nurtured all that grew
In many ways, I think, your heart was too big
Your colours too vivid, for an English town
You were an odd pair, you and my dad
You with your musicals, he with his melancholy
But each day brought you happiness, in small things
Like a new letter. Together, you were complete
He was kind and patient, that's why you loved him
Especially on holidays, when there was all of us
Kids in the jumpers you knitted, standing by the fence
The tang of the sea, fresh comics, Jerry's itching feet
They were idyllic those times. We remember them.
We are your brood. Your love flows through our veins
Memories are sensations – the smell of beef roasting
The sound of Beethoven or “bloody Leonard Cohen”
Sunday lunch. Records. Often, it was a battle ground
Sometimes, flower beds were trampled; you cried
But, see, the polyanthus you planted are still there
A bright patch of hope. The path leads back, to the front door
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