mum - it’s late
fish scales, dark and light, silvering
the scour on the marbling of time;
thoughts from before my mother became
my late mother, and the long years
when the remembering was blank;
but now, peppered, a mixture of good and bad,
of light and dark, of smiles and tears,
that were spilled and were mopped up.
for now, all one can say is sorry,
more to one’s self than to any diviner
of inner thoughts who might twig
that "mum - it’s late" is not an admonishment
but an apology.
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