The magician
She peeled spuds from an
old sack, laid on the floor,
Smoke wafting from the ash
laden cigarette in her mouth,
Screamed at all thirteen
of us kids, no one goes out that door,
Swearing the chores in the
house were suffering a drought,
One by one she named off
those older, in charge of one room or other,
Cigarette ash still
hanging unwavering, from the corner of her well-seasoned mouth,
It was never easy being in
charge of thirteen kids, being their mother,
But she managed it through
our very own famine and drought,
The father was about, late
at night, sometimes at the weekend, to unwind,
More oft gone for days
working, in the post the parcel came he’d sent,
Pockets sewn up, money
inside, safe from loss during travel, easy to find,
Just in time, as there was
always someone calling, collecting a debt or rent?
That ash never seemed to
fall from the cigarette, at least not that I can tell,
And there were mornings,
we could lick the ice, from inside our window,
If there were issues, they
were something on which we couldn’t afford to dwell,
It was either fix it,
repair it, mend it, everything had a use there was little to throw,
Lately I wonder, how she,
like so many others of her time coped,
Who taught her the
business of running what was family life,
Doing all in her head
money, school, cook, aid for any who choked,
Thirteen of us, yet still
finding time to be a dutiful wife?
I still don’t recall that
ash having ever hit our kitchen floor,
And she walked from dawn
to dusk, cooking cleaning washing ironing,
We helped as best we
could, just long enough to see escape, out the front door,
All thirteen independent strong
fairly decent adults more or less history defining,
Later years, when your
smoking days were over, I’d leave the odd one lying about,
Not a word spoken, a wry
smile as you pretended not to see, yet you knew,
Waved and cheered as I shouted,
“Cheerio” mother and went off out,
I return now, cigarette
gone, ash still unseen, the magician my mam, missing you
No comments:
Post a Comment