I never was my mother except
when I distort the truth and tell
strange tales that no one else can fit
in nor recognise nor believe.
I never will be my mother
but when I feel that vice is gripping whispering
‘bereft of friends’
I wonder: is that an echo of her whingeing?
No reflection of my mother except
grey-peppered hair, turgid jaw,
or does my voice harshen when I offer
praises lethally counterpointed with ‘but’?
We are strangers on drifting shores
each other’s greatest disappointment.
Yet darkness floods us both alike.
If we could mention it
there might be hope.
findingtimetowrite 
Powerful and emotive writing, Marina ~ I like this very much
Marina Sofia – What a poignant look at mothers and daughters and what it’s like to try to find each other as adults. So lovely!
A powerful ending here. (I have just seen a lot of my mother and I’m starting to feel the similarities. Ouch.)
Ah, you understand then… and to think that I always vowed to never, ever become like my mother!
Parenthood changes lives absolutely and we set out, a tiny soft hand in ours, with such high hopes. Immoveable aspiration then, suddenly, it’s as if a mirror were placed before us and there stands one of our parents!
Hmm, is it natural or good always to believe the worst traits are echoed in ourselves or is that we just cannot see the best in our mother or father, whichever . . .
RR
You describe it perfectly. Knowing everything you want to do differently, better, yet failing. Yet also having the maturity to see the good. Hmmm, not sure I’ve quite resolved this one yet. More confessional than most of my poetry, I’m afraid!