The Paler Shade of White
By Silver Spun Sand
Thu, 24 Dec 2015
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2 comments
See last gold sun behind clouds,
inked water in moonlight.
No poems written to praise you,
I write them white.
Carol Ann Duffy
Was she taught me how to make sour-dough bread,
or rather, ‘baby-sit’ it for her while she was away.
I was told to nurture it, as one would a child. Feed
the dough daily, to aid its rising; talk to it,
from time to time.
Crazy as it sounds, I did! Except…when, finally
she came to bake it, the loaf took a nose dive. Never
was I asked to ‘bread-sit’ again!
Was she told me one can’t have too many vases,
too many flowers; the rudiments of how to literally
‘shop until I dropped’ and yet still find time to lunch;
the incurable shopaholic that she was...
showed me the ropes on how to give ‘the kiss of life’,
with the aid of her blow-up mannequin, ‘Resusci-Anne’.
I laughed till I cried in my futile attempts,
one afternoon, long-since past.
How best to construct a compost heap; how to grow
anything from seed. Made me see the beauty
in common and garden weeds. “After all,” she posed
the question. “Isn’t a weed just a plant – decides
to grow in a place of its, not of our, choosing?”
a glint in those misty, grey-blue eyes.
Taught me to savour, the everyday things of life;
like walking the dogs, watching the bats at dusk
in her back yard; retrieving them safe and sound
from the jaws of Eddy her incorrigible tabby!
That dying, like it or lump it, is an integral part
of living; death’s ominous shadow, her companion
for twenty years. Rebel that she was, it only served
to spur her on; her thirst for life, unquenchable.
And in her dying, she taught me to realise
I wouldn’t be remembered for how clean
my house was. Something she’d learned too late,
she said; a message spread loud and clear.
Instructed me in how to climb inside her mind;
her thoughts, mine. I hope she knew, too,
how much I wished that an Elastoplast and a kiss
could make her better...but those days were over.
The best I could do was to follow where she led...
And she led me well...Till her final destination
where I practiced what she preached; watched
her drift to sleep as I stroked her feet and held
her hand – marooned, as she was, on that island
where touch became her life-raft.
Were she a writer, she would have written a book;
a diva – sung it straight from the heart. The star
of a reality TV show, ‘The Art of Dying’, given half
the chance. Instead, she did what she did best.
Remained a teacher to the end, and yet,
only now...eight years on, do I understand
what she meant when she said, ‘You’ll know
when I’m with you, Mum. Just trust me. And I did,
and I looked for her everywhere; in the music
she loved and played with total dedication...
searched in the trees and plants she told me the names of;
Bells of Ireland, Christmas Roses – hence Hellebores..
Alchemilla Mollis... and dozens more; in sunsets
and sunrises by the score, but she wasn’t there;
instead, she was right here, now...in each letter,
each syllable, every line, of every story and poem I write
in vain attempt to keep her a little alive.
And yet, no words of mine can ever bring her back, so...
‘I write them white’ as the manes of a thousand
white horses the sky swears are but clouds, sent
down from heaven...which the sea denies;
the turbulent tide transporting her essence
to that timeless place, where all comprehension,
rationality, rhyme and reason
shall have no domain.
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write them white, a blizzard
write them white, a blizzard of love and caring, thanks for sharing.
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celtic - you are more than
Permalink Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on
celtic - you are more than welcome
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