An Overly Sentimental Poem for My Mother

Just like the shoes, I am stubborn with,
I will not throw you out. Or like my white handbag
scratched with nib marks, belly-full of stories
I will keep you pursed, one arm belted over you.

These boots that my family hurry off me,
have heels stubbed out, scars from places
I’ve forgotten, and the soles brake away
from the shoe in a smile with each step.

When I don’t wear them, they keep shape,
carry the scent of their owner.
They have not forgotten me,
as I will not you.

Just like these shoes,
I will not pitch you out
into the black of bin liner,
I will reopen the spare room
bring your bed from the old house.

Suddenly, like the train station
where we find ourselves side by side,
our lives will link arms again
with wild flowers shed in our hands.