What a beautiful poem! Thanks Mary for sharing it.
To me as a child you were always small.
I never realised that age and wear
Had worn you down to size.
I noticed so much,
And yet so little.
I remember your soft round face
In a cloud of flour,
As we baked in the tiny kitchen.
The white dust sinking,
To land softly on the creases in your aging skin.
The runs in your stockings
That were always there
The runs in your stockings that never bothered you
But bothered everyone else
As they clucked and tutted
Five minutes before leaving for mass
As they waited while you sorted your stockings out.
And placing the battered plastic curlers in your hair
That silver candy floss
Light and thin
Maybe not always so
But now just enough to do the job.
The smell of Lavender and Turf smoke
That followed you wherever you went.
The smell that quietly creeps…
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