Let’s go for a walk

The bright afternoon shines. 
The leaves of
red, orange and gold, 
say that nothing bad can happen.

The park is the world to me.
The green lawns broken up by tarmac.
Here the silver slide and plastic swings,
the spinning tea-cup.

Excitement beats hard.
You let go of my hand and gently push me forward.

I run daringly.
Only for a few steps,
then turn, even run back, 
to you.

You cuddle me in ample flesh,
tight in the colourful folds of cloth.
Smell of cotton,
of cocoa butter.

I try again, 
I go that bit further. 
Always turning back, running back to you.

You give courage to explore,
my comfort blanket.

Now I run back, 
like elastic stretched 
then released.

I come back, 
back to the core
to find you’re gone.



My Mum’s Broth

Listen
No one makes broth like my mum
with its chopped turnips
diced potatoes
and flakes of carrot
a melody of colours

listen to the touch
of her pinny rustling
like the wind over a secret
as she moves from the work top to the stove
folding in the smooth butter beans
the translucent onions
and the pearl soft barley

listen to the broth thickening
as the gas hisses
and she seasons the 
heart of the soup with 
her smile

Listen
no one makes broth like my mum
and I tell  her
and she takes her eyes off the pot
to smile 
that smile that is warmer 
than the broth,
and more than the 
broth could ever be

Listen
I will need this broth 
in years to come
when I’m away from home
when she’s away for good

I’ll try my best to make the broth
to make it just like her broth
but maybe I’ll forget the ham shank
or get smoked by mistake

It will not come close to being as good as her broth
even when it’ll be scadding hot
it still won’t  warm my heart 
like my mum’s broth would 
or my mum’s smile could



I’m becoming my mum

red/brown woman
solid smile curtained
a stirring brew 

my mum weaved 
reds, yellows,
purple strands of time, cuddles and words
to create a home with
potato hot pot from left over Sunday roast to
cups of Bovril after Coronation Street but
before bedtime

my mum is now me

my mum had a white cotton
nightie dotted with petit rose buds
it clung to her size

I have it now
it bellows like a pelican’s bill
that would swallow the moon

I wear it now 
feel the fabric touch my skin
like soothing calamine 

I am becoming my mum

red/brown woman
solid smile curtained
a stirring brew 
Leaving 

A dramatic turn around
from the happy chappy
just a minute ago

Tears like tramlines
halt short of his jaw

eyes ruby silently
pleading for me
to note his distress

what’s the matter?
urgency coats my voice
an involuntary arm pulls him in

his face crumples like a crisp packet
with the accompanying sound to match

before he’s totally loses control
he squeaks I’m going to miss you

and then he’s gone
inconsolable
lost in his own misery

a day away that’s all.