25th December 2023

by Hugleikur Dagsson

 

overcast

in the bleak birch twigs

a bluetit

© Rachel Green December 2023

I'm outside with no shoes on

only socks against the weathered tarmac

of my parent's drive.

The sandstone wall supporting the raised back lawn

also supports my weight as I sit

staring into the drain overflow

from the canal fifty yards away

and ten feet above us.

My mother's talking to neighbours,

arms crossed over her nylon pinny,

standing on the stoop of the side door

with the neighbours two steps below

and my attention is on the cigarette butts

tossed into the lee of the wall by my father;

paper curling away from nicotine-stained filters

while the asults talk about a recent death

where a girl has been left without a mother.

"That could be me," I think, "if Mum died now.

"People walk talk about me with such emotion."

Catholic guilt flashes at the thought of wishing my mom dead,

but God heard me and answered.

© Rachel Green December 2023