Mother

As I step over this stile cool air falls over the peaks
Lifting scent from the coat that you lent me,
Oversized, with strands of hay in the pockets from
Where you collect your chickens' eggs. I walk over your fields,
Dappled in white, pass your woodland and walk
Through muddy tracks in the dawn’s grey light.

Your vanilla scent strengthens as if the orchid is
Growing in the groove of my shoulder,
Stretching its long fleshy pods and bursting its seeds around me.
This shaman’s trick swings memory and want into
Mind that has nowhere to escape to, as
It stumbles in the vastness, towards the other side of dawn.

Inside the church, your image in preserved in stone, the face and hands
Are ivory white while your body is draped in faded blue.
Bleeding tears from your eyes, slide down your cheeks, colouring
The solitude. I want to grip you like a barnacle,
Let your hands release this crown of thorns,
Let you hold me as your child until the night’s

Darkness collapses like a wave. At your porch
I leave my dirty boots alongside yours; they’re lined side by side
Like soldiers. Inside, I hang your coat over the banister,
Pocketing a strand of hay from yesterday’s collection.
You’ve prepared morning coffee and eggs with toast
As I see you again for the first time.


*


Father,

    your bone white light dulls everyday,
Crumbling Roman statue, you’ve lost all definition.
Your hands are fingerless like canoe paddles
Slapping the water, stinging the surface;
Leading me to your place of solitude.

Father, my mouth looks like yours,
Where mine was always silent, it gains
A voice while yours wears voiceless.
Your eyes and eyelids have merged together so
You can no longer read the inscription below
Your featureless foot, stating
‘The majesty of stature; the stature of majesty’.


Donna Bailey