Not My Mother (Poetry)

Although it must be nearly forty years,
I hear her voice — its harsh unlovely tones
scythe the evening air, cut short our games —
calling for her children to come home.

I see her figure, awkward in a dress,
beckoning with raw work-roughened hands,
waving like a windmill — no finesse
or breeding in her guttural commands.

Reluctantly the three of them obeyed,
collecting a sharp cuff about the ears
for being late, her patience sorely frayed
and voluble for half the street to hear.

The other kids, embarrassed, looked away
and whispered. I remember feeling glad
my mum wore gloves, was on the PTA
and never showed us up — me or my dad.

* * * * *

Dusk beside a bus stop, winter-wet,
I queued behind a glowing filter tip
and knew the smoker, watched that cigarette
dangle from her ashen lower lip,

recognised her head scarf and the way
she squinted — like a hunter aims a gun
and scans the rain-blurred distance of the day
where echoes mingle and the shadows run.

* * * * *

The paragraph was small, the format set —
no flowers please... the final illness brief,
her Christian name uncommon, I forget
the details. I’m ashamed I felt relief

not sympathy; reacting to such news,
the child within me counted up those crimes
of etiquette too vulgar to excuse,
so glad that loving mother wasn’t mine.