As in a womb,her life had been so perfectly woven here.
Rounded high and tidy was the bun she had tied in her hair
A gentle sway of her hips summoned obedience to order
A Midas touch so intense nothing dared look older.
I had been taught of perfection in selection in this very room
Told my lifestory and characters should be polished up as does the broom
Only the beautiful brides in her stories get the groom
Now I wonder why my Father never saw her bloom.
In the Winter the only warmth was a fire
Trapped underneath steel pots that never showed retire
Neck-deep in oblivion of the absence of a father
Ignorance never bliss,the sorrow in mother was dire.
The Summer brought sunshine and tunes from a lyre
A controlled loneliness took vacancy in Mother and I
Over soup-making tutorials she’d say with a sigh,
“Grow up out of the kitchen till the day that you die”
These words are echoes of the life that she led
A rose-scented cover and tear-stained bed
All of the pieces of herself that she shed
Became the bread out of which I’m made.
The tidiness and trimmings of which I’d see
Were all the things she wished she’d be
Wrecked and trodden on,I do agree
But my Mother made sure I’d be free
Free to find peace
Free to be praised
Free of all the demons
That my Father raised.