The bare legs of English girls in winter minis
bring mottled blue bumps out on my flesh
as my mother’s predictions don’t come true:
windswept skirts, shrunken ovaries
and that boys prize virginity above all else.
No, my watchman whispers hoarsely now:
and I’ve left it far too late.
But alcohol, that great leveler,
the way they drink to fuel their gab,
that did not find me
till my forties
when I remember
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Lynn invites us to write a poem inspired by the title (and symbolism) of Harper Lee’s ‘Go Set a Watchman’ novel. Who or what acts as your personal watchman and do you choose to follow that voice of conscience or ignore it? For far too long my watchman was my mother. It took me a long time to figure out she may have been wrong about certain things. And right about others.