Anniversary

It's two years to the day since my mother died of motor neurone disease. We got the news in a Total petrol station near the Chunnel. I went to the gents for a bit of peace, and found this had been carved into a pipe. Maybe it means 'Have a nice day' in Polish.









SWING
I never want to play on a swing again. I recall,
even as you uncovered my eyes,
took me to see what Daddy had made,
and set me on the heavy-chained seat,
clanking and floating over our spot of Earth:
I was unsure what could break my fall.

Later, as it rusted,
and we kids were too old to stand up cradled by you,
or just sit, our legs pushing out into a hurricane
born from the tug of gravity's wires
pulling us back from the summit of the ride,

You - hysterectomy-weakened - strode up the path,
wiped dew and sparrow-stars from the seat,
gathered your sun-stained skirts,and pushed
bed-softened toes off our runway
(that wound all kids must make on grass) as

you hung yourself to a quickening flight:
a swinging C of metal and green and flesh and cloud,
laughing and shining and above all entitled:
that was what you meant as you beamed at the neighbours just over the fence.

Too much trouble, to play on a swing again.
It's not fair - not just that your hands have done their job -
it's that lost moment at the top of the ride.