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.
