A Mother

Softly the smell would arouse him, the fresh sent sizzling into the nose.
Always, it woke him; the late, light mornings of rest,
For if he rests now is a mystery the other side knows.
Tip-taps on the stairs, he would run, tumbling down,
Growing older, growing bigger, it was always me that he chose.
Shivers on skin; the thin air floating in sleep of his pondering breech.
You’re running, you’re laughing, your hair, the wind blows,
The lines of time once carving patiently with a beautiful screech;
But now, only disfigured, unfinished wood remains on your age old frame.
You’re gone now, my mind swirls, as is my everlasting Mother joy,
But my Mother pride overwhelms me, like a beast I cannot tame.
And the fire burns on, not a flicker to our flame.
The coffin of love I now burry, going down, up, playing like a boy, once again.

Ellis Hughes's picture

Aspiring to be a published author and poet, recently working for The Guardian News & Media and now moving on to study a degree in Creative Writing for Publication.

Last updated April 02, 2015