|Apr/May 2008 Poetry Special Feature|
There are strangers in her children
a collection she does not know
whom she is afraid to question in case
they leave her to die alone.
They were patterns closely woven
hinges on the same door
that opened and closed
with the squeak of love.
She has passed into the widow generation
become the dust on the furniture
the mould in the fridge
a tear that has stopped crying
for all the things she had to surrender.
She tries to be useful
but her opinions are the crunch underfoot
of dry maple leaves.
Her voice parched
theirs the trill of excited feather-rows.
She crouches in her space.
They rise with resolute ambitions
forgetting the small pieces she shaped
in the warm depths of nursery rhymes.