MY MOTHER'S HEADSTONE

The photograph on my Mother’s headstone
Has faded whilst others nearby stay bright and clear,
But her memory remains, each shade and tone,
Despite her absence here.

On the shelves, old volumes sleep, long since read;
The spines of paperbacks slack and the pages brown,
But whilst many of the authors are dead,
I may yet take them down.

Skin wrinkles, bones ache and hair withers grey;
Getting out of that armchair makes me groan and sigh,
But the flame still burns strong within the clay
And the shadows dance high.

The oak in winter has froze like dark stone,
By the graveyard path it stands, naked and sere,
But the vernal pulse will climb its backbone
And wake another year.


(2010)


I’d had the first verse of this for months but didn't know where it was going. Then, one day whilst waiting for Spring, during the coldest winter in the UK for over thirty years, the rest of it suddenly arrived.

Today is the fourteenth anniversary of my mother’s passing so it is fitting that I include this poem now. A couple of weeks ago, I visited Gilroes Cemetery and was uplifted by the sight of a blaze of Autumn trees facing her headstone. The photograph however, was taken at the church of St. Mary De Castro in Sanvey Gate during that long awaited Spring and seems to compliment the poem effectively.