My Mother's Coat (Poetry)

All these long cold years of estrangement
and I don’t know now
if her skin is warm or already
touching the yellowness of Sussex clay
but I remember sleeves and cuffs and hem —
the fabrics of the day
back when fashion vaguely mattered
and she wore them all
according to whim and season’s fickle way.

When I was young I recognised her
by her coat — its colour and its swing
from other mothers in the crowd —
its scent and texturing up close
not really comfort but a landmark of
my journeys to and fro
to school and round the shops.
I followed like she was a guiding flag
advancing through the streets of conquered home.

One raincoat I recall was orange-red —
a waterproof that glowed as though alight
and cheerful in the gloom — its rubber held
a strong aroma haunting the small hall
where it was hung among the grey and black
of sombre clothes — my much-hated navy mac
and my father’s jackets which all looked the same —
from the same shop — long gone — a gent’s
outfitters moderately priced — but I forget their name.

Mother had that coat maybe a dozen years
and I can see her in the distance a bright dot
coming closer — sailing through the rain
as though she were a fisherman togged tight
against the wetness and the squalling wind
she seemed invincible — a beacon in the night
kept dry beneath its wrapping even as it poured —
for that guarantee let no drop of water through.

She wore it ’til the wear began to show —
colour dimmed and seams started to pull
and it hung shabby — knowing it was done
with battle — like the elements had won
at last — the rubber lining peeled in shreds —
flaked its agéd florid skin...
Eventually she replaced it — wore instead
a padded hybrid — beige and zippered snug
that went with slacks and almost everything
but had no character — she blended in
with every crowd. And so I lost her — gone
from sight — the memory of red a fading spark.