As children we played
In the grass below
The oak that he planted
From acorn who was to know
That we’d all grow up enchanted
By the sound of her laughter
As it echoes down the years to glow
In our hearts our lambs to the slaughter
Like a bird on the wing
Like the flurries of snow
That bite my cheeks as I grow
Through the world as it warps
My mind between immediate concerns
And the wanting to know
What lay behind her eyes
So frightened alive
In a body that no longer
Knew how to survive
But I don’t want to silence that laughter
As it echoes down the years to glow
Beneath the oak from acorn
Determined to grow
In the fragile hereafter
In the grass below
The oak that he planted
From acorn who was to know
That we’d all grow up enchanted
By the sound of her laughter
As it echoes down the years to glow
In our hearts our lambs to the slaughter
Like a bird on the wing
Like the flurries of snow
That bite my cheeks as I grow
Through the world as it warps
My mind between immediate concerns
And the wanting to know
What lay behind her eyes
So frightened alive
In a body that no longer
Knew how to survive
But I don’t want to silence that laughter
As it echoes down the years to glow
Beneath the oak from acorn
Determined to grow
In the fragile hereafter
For my Mother
3 comments:
I'm lost with this one.
I've come back a few times, but I'm still not getting it. I didn't need to come to say that, except I thought somehow silence was more damning than a simple, Hmmm?
Lxx
I probably should explain the title...
My sister and I got lost in the supermarket; we were about 5 and 6 at the time and when asked what our mother's name was could only come up with what our friends called her: Aunty Molly
Upon being requested to collect us, my mother appeared and to our consternation she was doubled over with laughter...
The poem itself stretches her laughter through the years.
The last two verses slay me, and the last seven words are well known in my universe.
This poem stabbed me in the heart and I'm glad of it.
Lobe were here.
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