<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mothers<\/strong><\/p>\n I dream you alive, This new alive you is warm, August heat and the soft hug Alive, if only! Drums and spoons \u2013 A hymn lifts you through the ceiling, Dad\u2019s face is dark as a thundercloud At full throttle your seesaw Queen of Dreams, you dance Cherries in the Snow bursts<\/em> You hum How Great Thou Art\u2019 and Billy Boy,<\/em> It\u2019s your birthday. A June rose, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Julia Webb<\/strong> is a graduate of UEA’s Poetry MA and a poetry editor for Lighthouse.<\/em> She lives in Norwich where she teaches creative writing. Her first collection Bird Sisters<\/em> is out now from Nine Arches Press.<\/p>\n
\nthat I wake to find you flying
\nround my bed. I am not surprised,
\nthough I remember your bulk,
\nyour papery skin, as if
\nit were only yesterday.
\nThis new alive you is warm,
\nsoft and light as a tropical breeze.<\/p>\n
\na rich abundant thunderstorm,
\na flutter, skirting my eyelids,
\na whisper in that lilting voice,
\nyou steady on the bedpost,
\none brief hover. You remind me
\nof hugs, scolding, the squeeze
\nof your hand, Scottish drizzle,
\nAugust heat on the turn.<\/p>\n
\nof your voice reading aloud
\nat the kitchen table.
\nThe words rise and fall
\nuntil the room grows dark,
\nyet neither us can bear
\nto break the moment\u2019s magic;
\nthe air is strangely alive.<\/p>\n
\nIn midnight black I sing
\nHumpty Dumpty<\/em> with Daddy
\nas you float along the ceiling cornice –
\na balloon slowly expiring
\nin your least favourite colour – green,
\npearls for tears around your neck
\nYour pots and pans resonate
\ndrums and spoons.<\/p>\n
\nyour cast iron pots line up
\nlike cauldrons on butcher\u2019s hooks.
\nI stand on your red chair tipping
\nflour and sugar into a blue plastic bowl.
\nRemember the day we ate a whole bowlful,
\nscooping the mixture with our fingers?
\nI see us zooming in and out
\nof damp washing on broomsticks,
\nour voices raised in hymn.<\/p>\n
\npresses roof tiles upright,
\nglides over rows of lime-green cabbages,
\nJoy\u2019s Mum\u2019s rhubarb wrapped
\nin the Evening News on our doorstep.
\nThe church stump tower reaches
\nfor you, but the wind pushes
\nyour song on. Afraid of heights
\nyou drop onto a thundercloud.<\/p>\n
\nas he smokes his pipe,
\nin front of the Nine o\u2019clock News,
\nwhile you scrunch poppy-red tissue
\nfor giant paper flowers,
\nor sit at the living room table
\nhumming, your sewing machine
\npelting along at full throttle.<\/p>\n
\nfeet rock the pedals,
\naround the table a tangle of chiffon,
\nsashes, buttons and odd-bin beads
\nin glass bubbles, knitting needles
\ntrimmed with rows of baby blue.
\nYou guide me through life
\njust as you slide fabrics under
\nthe speeding needle, zigzagging sometimes,
\nonwards towards sensible living.
\nYou are my Queen of Dreams.<\/p>\n
\nout of the mirrored wardrobe
\ndressed in your sixties cast-offs \u2013
\nthose multi-coloured beauties:
\nsilky mini dresses and satin lined capes,
\nflimsy finery for our \u2018dressing up\u2019.
\nYour eyes black, heavy with liner,
\nyour lipstick, cherry red.<\/p>\n
\nacross your lips, strands of wispy perm
\nstray wild around your ears,
\nyou hiccup giddy gulps of sherry
\nbehind a creased napkin,
\npush varifocals up your nose,
\ncall after strangers with familiar backs.
\nYou drop jigsaw pieces as you wander,
\nblobs of colour \u00a0– summer blooms, hand-painted cups.
\nPerched on the wall outside your church.
\nyou hum How Great Thou Art\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n
\nguitar balanced across your knees.
\nYour bungalow is rainbow chaos,
\nyou issue orders from your bed,
\nfret about what\u2019s been ousted from the fridge.
\nYou rummage through carrier bags
\nbut can never find exactly what you need \u2013
\nyour best teeth, your reading glasses,
\nthat last birthday card from your Mum.<\/p>\n
\nsweet and sharp-thorned,
\nyou say: \u2018you shouldn\u2019t waste money on me.\u2019
\nYour wheelchair wobbles
\non the North Berwick green,
\nbut you crave the sea air.
\nWe fly through the garden centre \u2013
\npick geraniums for a summer you\u2019ll never see,
\nland for lukewarm tea and chunky chips \u2013
\nyour favourite – those childhood naughties
\nsoaked with salt like the Forth.<\/p>\n