Just back from the coast, spending Mother’s Day with the whole family. Autumn sun, conversation, food… you couldn’t ask for more. So as a gift to my mum, I thought I would repost this poem (it’s a few years old now, but still rings true).
Friday afternoon, mother waits
with a bunch of silverbeet picked
from the garden, plate of shortbread
the kettle already boiled.
When she visits, we talk for hours
steal stories from empty tea cups
until the sun fizzes behind the mountain
and bats converge on the neighbour’s mango tree.
I walk with her the five streets
back to our family home, the air
humid and dizzy with moths.
Each street corner a childhood memory:
grazed knee on Gatton
breaking streetlights on Tarrant
fist-fight on Margate
first kiss on Kentish
and the smell of mother’s cooking
as we climb the hill to Heyford.
I hug my mother, kiss her aging cheek
and make my passage home, our hearts
tied together by the reliable string
of Friday afternoon.