Mothering Sunday*

Hello Mum.
How time has passed
With so many questions still unasked.
So many things I wanted to know
To anticipate how I would grow,
Never fully appreciating
How much there is to learn in waiting,
Trusting your steady-seeming hand
In care, as much in governance,
Walking beside me
On a road to self-acceptance:
The tripping and the stumbling,
The swearing and the mumbling,
The tragedies and travesties
Of each romantic casualty;
The silent observation
Of changing situations;
The never-really-questioning
And absence of orations.
The fighting and the arguments
Anger sometimes viciously spent
In slamming doors and language vile,
Histrionics to beguile…
Hurting, hating, spitting feathers,
Learning how to live together,
Each one given space to grow-
It’s only now we really know,
With decades passed
And own-selves set,
Memories cast
And hard to forget,
That I look back and see at last
The ways you set yourself aside
To Love.
Unconditionally guide.


*I learned from my mum (not far off 90 years of age) the propriety of ‘Mothering Sunday’ as a festival of the church- not the high street…

-being clear, as ever,  that other sources of information are available!)



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