Mother.


I watch the rise and fall of her chest,
listen intently for her breath,
part fearful, part hopeful,
waiting for death to come,
knowing that life can be lived for far too long.
Where is she now?
With her much-loved mother?
Smelling the rich warmth of the milking shed?
Seeing her brothers walking across the near paddock?
Let her be anywhere but this
diminished and difficult present
where vitality is gone,
and each day she seems to fade a little more.

She wakes.
There is a little smile,
as if sweetness cannot be washed away,
no, not even by the relentless grip
that sweeps her inexorably along.
Suddenly, seeing that smile,
I think of what she was,
how she walked through this world
​in quiet anonymity, a creative spirit,
deeply gentle, calm and self-controlled,
flexible, open and inquisitive,
her heart tempered in love,

and bending to kiss her, 
perhaps for the final time,
walking from that place,
past the repetitive muttering
of the vacant ghosts in their wheel chairs,
this sad, last abiding place,
my heart is strangely swelling
with a sense of privilege and gift;
yes, sad that life can come to this
but proud and elated to have known her,
been nurtured and loved by her,
marvelling that my anonymous life
can be so rich, so full of blessing,
so beautifully filled in its entirety
with the wonderful love of women,
and raising my eyes heavenwards
in silent, sad, complex thankfulness
I ask that I can carry her gentleness with me,
passing it on to those that I love,
yes, setting free her unknown greatness
to ripple and wash through and over
the countless generations yet to come.





Leah.
For my loved sister, Jean.

I think of you, Leah,
your young self standing 
against tempests in calm control,
your artist eye filled with dreams
of children in golden forests,
sun dance of poppies,
moon floating high
into the velvet night,
foam ripple of waves 
washing white sand.

I think of you, Leah,
leaf-fragile, partial, secretive,
how you inch in your walker, 
flop in front of the screen’s 
mind-numbing monotony,
dream of painting again,
linger over photographs,
shuffle the years 
and that deceiver, memory,
into forms that make you happy.

Leah, is it comfort
that the gathering tide 
flowed over you, swept you 
out into deep calm 
where great swells gather,
far beyond the tears of the living
trapped in this tumult,
this ebb and flow of waves 
that pound upon the sand
and suck back relentlessly
into the ceaseless sea?

First published at Peacock Journal.



Turned and Gone Away.
For my loved sister, Jean.

Loved mother, 
your house, 
gripped by flood,
floats from its foundations,
sinking ever lower.
You sit on the roof.
I cry out to you, 
swim, throw a rope,
beg you to leave
but you can only wring your hands,
turn and float away.

Loved mother, 
small and diminished,
you tremble before a precipice
filled with darkness.
I cry out that I understand
your fears of age,
diminished powers, loneliness,
the horror that shuffling dependency
may lead you into actions 
once unspeakable
but you can only wring your hands,
turn and step away.

Loved mother, 
in deep denial you reel
from the mirror, truth.
You close your eyes
and cover your ears.
I cry out that I understand 
how time and circumstance have trapped you,
that you have grown far too old for truth,
that you need to pretend you still are
the wonderful person you once were
but you can only wring your hands,
stagger and flee away.

Much loved mother, 
you shuffle
down a long corridor
in the slow and painful way
of your last years.
I cry out that I understand
how extreme age forced you
into secrets, deceptions, 
and, much worse, sad betrayal 
of some you so loved.
I shout I love you and forgive you
but the words echo and bounce 
down the empty corridor.
You have ceased wringing your hands.
You have turned and gone away.

First published at Better Than Starbucks


​
Lost, Without Compass or Star.
For my mother,
Brenda Lynette Creighton,
1919-2014

I put my hand to the tiller,
turn this creaking vessel 
into a darkly rumbling surge
of grief, bewilderment and betrayal,
finding in love and forgiveness
wind sufficient to fill my little sail 
and lift me up and over the tumult
into water deep and gentle
and sorrowfully compassionate.

Clouds dissipate. The stars are out.
The surge flows smoothly.
My arm, steady on the tiller,
holds the course firm and true.
I know extreme age stole
all her best qualities,
her vision, judgment, empathy
and most especially, honesty.
Without vigour to guide her way,
she drifted vulnerably across the dark.

There are no quiet, protected waters,
only sailing on a sea 
that alternately shimmers or looms.
One day, inevitably, the gift 
of an overflowing surge will come.
Best if it arrives before capacity 
to raise your own sail is lost. 
She was always gentle and kind.
What cast her loose, set her drifting 
on a last dark voyage
that belied all her previous voyaging?

First published at Anti-Heroin Chic.



What is left?

​
Acceptance.
A sad acceptance
filling the space
that enables the mind
to move on.

Love too.
Love for all those 
trapped in bitterness, 
twisted mistakes,
errors of judgment,
vulnerability,
obsessive self-centredness,
failure of empathy,
loneliness,
endless self-justification,
deep unhappiness.

Joy too. 
Joy for life-
tangle of green,
splash of colour,
arc of blue,
body’s vigour,
laughter of children,
deep wonder of relationship.

And grief.
A weight of grief
which I learn to carry,
grief changing with time
but not entirely leaving,
grief for loss,
grief for diminishment,
grief for destruction 
of precious things,
grief for waste,
for sad, sad waste.

What else can there be?

What else can there be?