Pulling long-stalked weeds
from my mother’s garden,
I am a child at play.
One, two, three bags full;
hop-scotch stones rediscovered,
dirt-smeared socks and shoes,
midge-bitten, nettle-stung arms
and those thorn-struck hands!
Their backs just like ladybirds,
their colours inverted.

There’s a drawer full of gloves in there,
why won’t you wear them?

The rebellious teen? Well, perhaps
I didn’t ask permission to repaint the gate,
untouched since my long-dead father’s demise,
or to hunt out his life-extended shears, 
to chop away and unembed 
the mattress of foliage from the walkway,
though scraping the moss 
proves more of a chore.

When will you ever learn to be tidy?

Mother’s words, unspoken in decades
become my silent own,
for now, she likes things wild,
growing as nature intended,
whereas I believe in structure,
the pointing out of safe paths.

I ought to see my face in those stones, 
but instead, I see hers, 
as I too often do when looking at glass,
some of which I imagine to be
that of the museum 
and she an exhibit, 
live-wire eyes, a shock 
when waves can no longer extend
further than her shoulders’ narrow hunch.

Chest concave, spine convex,
hers is a forced resignation,
though every now and then
she’ll find the strength to rise,
making tea and coffee 
in a single mug – no water –
or to talk of the beasts
whose names she can’t remember:

They’ll spit at you, you know,
if you try to feed them by hand.

Still, she likes what I’ve done with the garden.
Dad should be thankful he’s got me 
to do all his work. She thinks
I’m too full of good deeds.

Except I’m not. I am a child at play,
only tall enough now to reach the top of the arch,
to prune and encourage the climbers,
dead-heading roses just another stage of the game.

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