Seeking a Mother’s love

It is hard to get beyond the grave to the heart of someone so elusive, and who can no longer provide answers.

This is a poem about searching : you can listen and, if you like, read the transcript below:



What is a mother?

Cupboards hiding

Ice-cream cartons, cream cartons, cartons that held stuff

Along with super market bags

Within more bags that transport food

You can no longer eat. It made you sick

And feeds an infestation in my brain.




Just below my throat.


I’m now recycling the litter of your past:

Objects, tools, appliances to find the woman who left so many scars.

You are the rusted garden rake

Losing its teeth.

You are the ancient dishwasher whose hose conceals

Stagnant water.

You are my Green School Trunk

Piled with the mothballed evening gowns you wore for Do’s

With L’air du Temps, shampoo and set, and lacquered nails.

And him.


You are a decaying frame that grips my door.

You are the dull steel sink, a grimy floor.

You are the cobwebs and the withered plants.


You are still.


PS The picture is North York Moors just outside Goathland

4 Comments Add yours

  1. So honest, raw and potent. And painful too I’d imagine.

    My mother used L’air Du Temps.


  2. So moving and powerful. ❤️


    1. Thank you mother wintermoon, It’s odd there is a stirring to write and we pen some lines. It all comes out, we feel better and then something even more miraculous occurs in that undefined space between reader and writer. Something new is born xxx

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Love your reply! Very true and profound! XO


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