On a yellowed flyleaf, half a century ago,
my mother wrote to say Birthday Wishes
and Mum, that name that buries self away.
I was her firstborn, headstrong, loving,
exuberant, wilfully astray.
My childhood fears, unbidden tears,
the small, lost battles of the day,
she dissipated in her arms.
My daughter holds her sons that way.
Richard Fleming
Image : Pixabay - VaniaRaposo
