An Audience With My Mother by David

[cameron]

The student teacher, relocated
to Scarborough for the duration,
fleeing (calmly) bombable Leeds,
its toothsome homes and blacked out factories,
for an unstrategic seaside resort,
the air fresh and bracing but not lethal.

The farmer's wife, the chatelaine,
not her metier - too shy - but
with rolled up sleeves and good old-fashioned gumption
making a decent job of it,
cooking and cleaning in a crowded steamy kitchen.

The settled widow, missing still
a kind man, funny, good with dogs and children,
with three surviving sisters, relicts all,
with bus pass and gusto just getting on with it.

(When they sit on a couch together
it is like Mount Rushmore in cardigans.
When they descend on a local tearoom
it is like the Earps calling for fondants and French fancies.)

All these selves, all here now,
this Sunday, as most Sundays, discoursing merrily,
leaning over the shoulder of this quiet little woman.

And I hardly ever notice.