The Wolf

I don't mind if I die
I see my face
With Shadows
of bruise.
Empty of blood
Skin sunk like
Galleon treasure
To rocks of skull.

I am going to die -
Is it a premonition?
That this flesh and blood boy
Under my ribs
I breathed into life
Will cast me asunder
to my end?

That this longed for
Boy
Will be a culmination
Of a Life's work?

That I will expel him
To the mercy of the fates
And exhaling last breath
Exalt his name.
While his heart beats outside
Of me,
Like the red pulse
Birthing blood
To carry my soul away.

Or - just quietly-
Does every mother
Stand here and wave
To Death,
Across the membrane.
Timidly, flirtatious
A salute.
A look of wondered recognition.
A sigh
Of knowing the journey
either way.

Crayon lines

I dream of drawing
Not with stilted biro
of caught words
With crayon
Colour
Finger paint
A textured
Scar of swirl
Anything bright to explain
Without voice.

The Grass

Today The Grass

Today, (fellow Mothers),
It was The Grass.
Mowed into swathes of rich
Green scent.
That attracted my children's feet
Into the damp yard.
Where (I imagine),
They galumphed, like horses,
Until their feet were coated
In the drippings
of
The Grass.

Their perfect little feet, (two by two),
Stuck by, all over,
With the minced up
Emerald brilliance
With spots of seeds
And crinkled leaves.
No doubt it felt like
Fairy slippers
And smelt like the end
of a
Wet Summer.

Only then, (fellow Mothers),
As you can imagine,
These dainty feet, (two by two),
Galumphed inside
They skidded in across
The (foolish!) white tiles.
They pirouetted
As fairy shod Horses
Are want.

I saw, (dear Mothers),
Where they came,
And
Where they went,
Throughout the house
And then-
Ah then-
(I'm sure you can imagine),
It was
The Grass.