A Mother's Advice

One day, my mother said, you will see,
That what others want is not what you do,
And what you want does not match theirs
And when you do, you will know the truth.

As a thirteen year old, I considered this,
Sitting on the cold school bus, packed off
To learn, threatened by bully boys sat at the back
And I realised my mother was right.

The gloom through the window on the way home
That day filled up my soul, caught it in night
And altered the electrodes, twisted the messages,
And I gazed on into my future.

Walking up from the bus stop
Along the winding steep tree-lined road
Cryptic in winter evening, the wind
Whistled in my ears as I strode home.

Leaves battered by the late winter rain,
A two-tone sound of fluttering in the gale,
Branches ricocheting against one another,
The few remaining benevolent green leaves battered,
Twisted in the storm-shot night,
As tactile birds perch within, refugees
In their boughs.

But as I reach home, the tone of the storm
Quickens, the day’s sprites quelled,
And I hear my mother’s words again
Before she speaks and greets me home.