Women Walking

My day is fettered by my mother’s steps.
I learn the shopping list by heart,
discover architraves.
Walking this slowly
I nearly lose my balance.
I’ve not got that long—
at my pace I’d be going
somewhere, not marking time,
her arm locked on to mine.

*

My daughter’s somewhere else.
Her tenseness fusses me
into unsteadiness.
Her arm is wooden.
Once there was suppleness,
a give and take,
a comfortable distance.
I didn’t ask for this—
time, pace, speed, out of my hands.

*

Haven’t we walked this way before
—a child fumbling, breathless,
clutching to keep up;
a mother tethered to a clinging hand?