In Plight

My mother’ grip weaker but tighter too 

A desperate plea to me and to mortality 

The love abounding but unstable 

The conditions placed upon herself weigh badly. 

“Was I a good mother?” the plaintive quest to understand 

The fear of an Unforgiven. 

Yet what her memories paint and what of them remain 

I cannot judge 

But what I can induce is blame 

That reassurances will never penetrate. 


A child robbed of youth; 

Or the joy therein, 

Robbed of a father through the maraudings of a mean mother 

And when his death arrived 

Though grown 

She was left alone against the politics of the justifiably estranged 

Strained through years of conflict and contradiction. 


So what then of my future in this mess? 

A hand that will grip tight long after death 

Is made of love and not the need for love 

To reciprocate is joy 

But to give without expectation is strength 

And to never look for reassurances is brave – 

Especially at the end. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

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