My mother,
silent in thought,
holds a cheap pen in her hand,
gold and silver, clicking her tongue as she begins to write
Still clearly the teacher
she continues to be in her writing,
a callous reminds of the hours with red pens sizing up
children.
She stops to cough,
a planned gentle sound
escapes her thin lips, then she begins to me again.
I feel guilt claw,
watching her writing.
Keeping in touch- something
I never did when I left her alone
By Niall McDougall
No comments:
Post a Comment