a poem for Jean

 a poem for Jean

my mother’s face

carried the woes of the whole world

and the world before that

and the world to come

there was a sadness that would not lift

‘laughing leads to crying’ she once said

in all earnestness she withdrew

not the remark 

but herself

she never knew which way to turn

under the spotlight of our love

she sang to the whole world

even when she ‘laid out’ the villagers

in their sadness they never recognised her sadness 

her knitted brow was her

our perception of her 

but not her burden

we saw what we were used to seeing

we sort of got used to it

the frowns seemed softer in the firelight

the cold draughts did not move her

but now and then that look came

taking her by the hand far away

took her from us into the valleys of her brow

the tributaries of the lake of tears

as if the hands of the lost were reaching for her

and she could not reach them in time

she seemed to be waiting in a silent wail

for the end of her time when perhaps 

she would be able to console them

and in the furrow of her worried brow 

recompense would flow

our flowers not welcome on the shroud of her

even if the flowers were her bequest to us

we find it all too slippery to hold

too cold to handle

too sharp to accept

too transparent to hang consolation

dear god 

look at me

frowning like she did

i like to think that might bring a smile to her face

eventually hangs there accusingly