Mother’s Ramble

The wood shuddered and every eye

listened at the stair behind the wall

The door opened and slowly

a black felt hat followed
by a long black coat

a black handbag and two black shoes

emerged turned and quietly closed the door

In her eighties she was still a mountain

crumbling now but not yet turned to dust

Lips quivered her moustache. She smiled

uncertainly at these strangers in her room

negotiated the pillar and struggled

through double doors - down steps - below the swinging sign

-

At the bar the cry went up

"She's off again. Better get your coat on"

He emerged - flustered - from the kitchen

followed by the smell of onions and hot pot

"Which way?"

"Up!"

He ran back - turned off the gas

banged flour from his greying beard

In sandals - hurrying up the cobbled street

Icy wind whipping round his toes

biting through thin checked trousers

He scanned anxiously for signs of her

'Fleet for her age - Pity her brain doesn't match'

Puffing - he turned a corner and sighed softly

Her bulky determined shape a few yards on

"Mother.. come on Mother

Its too cold to be out

Where are you going this time?"

"Home.. I'm going home"

She saw the terraced house three miles away

..its shiny windows

"Mother.. its gone

You know its gone"

She looked at this fat blank stranger

"Why are you calling me Mother?

I want Tommy

You can't stop me.. our Tommy.."

His eyes watered against the ice

His lips clamped tight shut

"Mother.. please.. come on I'll take you home"

linking her arm he gentle turned her round

Chin hairs wobbled as she cried bitter tears

He dried her face on the tea towel from his pocket

soothing as they walked slowly back down the cobbled street

"Soon have you warm again

Some tea and a biscuit"

"Is Tommy coming?"

Searching street.. face.. memory..

"No Mother - You know he can't"

She saw the strong young son in his uniform

searched the face of this grey bearded stranger

"Who are you?

I don't want you

Where's Tommy?"

"Its alright Mother

Come on - nearly home"

Up the steps under the swinging sign

Into the bar and a sea of pink faces

Her eyes screwed tight

Her face lifted

Every hair changed into an angle of welcome

"Oh.. you're all here

How good of you to come

This man will get us all some tea"

The Man He Is

 Salt - he’s into salt this week

And farts producing foetid air

And pissing in the kitchen bin

And ‘gobbing’ in the kitchen sink

Is there no end to my disgust

It rises choking into rage

Yet he is heading into dark

The man once tenderly I loved

The man enclosing all my hope

Who loved and set me free to live

Who moved me – happy – round the earth

How can I mend this widened gap

His room – his cave – is lined with books

With newspapers in carrier bags

Withall no reading now delights

But only worries more than life

He walks – he drinks – he’s going deaf

He loses temper on the spot

Invents his history of war

Expounds to all who lend an ear

As on and on – with Hitler beat

His tanks and planes and submarines

All driven – so it seems – by him

When he was but ‘the milk round lad’

Yet deep confusions in his head

Controlled by will ‘magnificent’

Are sometimes forced to line the wall

As sympathy and need arise

Inside his eyes I see the spark

Of who he is – still fighting back

I hold my breath – try not to cry

But just admire the man he is.