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?
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
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.
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