Woman

WOMAN

Soft tears fall silently
on cheeks as she sits
without breath, staring.
“She didn’t know what
it was to be a woman
…… neither do I……..
taught by the best, me.”
Palpable grief, greened
by sickness of heart oozed
out of her every pore.
“Sixty two years of not
knowing how to be WOMAN.”

Air felt cool.
Eyes heavy.
Motionless child
buried in pain filled layers
to hide, to scream, to suffocate,
to die to ever being alive……
“I’m in no man’s land….”
she said….
raising one hand to sky
picturing mother’s
worn, rough skin, the razor
she used to shave her chin,
the hands she used to
break the pheasant’s neck….

Mourning the loss
of possibility
turns from one
generation to the next…
till someone realises
they still have time
to become the woman
they never were.
Only then does
something change…
slowly, gently,

no pushing,

no blame.

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The Work of Hands

The Work of Hands
Staring down at my creased hands,
I see a journey with tales embeded in every fold.
Mothers hands were worn and tired
reast on her knees on her apron.
I would notice them when she was sewing,
mending my clothes, darning a sock
or stitching on a button which hung by a single thread;
I felt safe when they were busily employed,
her rough, sore, sad hands.
Here I am with mine, ageingly flabby,
now for the first time, with long, manicured nails.
At sixty one I feel just a little bit more like a woman.
I wonder what mum’s hands would have looked like,
manicured and cared for. I wish I had known.