Christina, I feel I'm a little belated in commenting
on this typically sensitive and well-written poem but
that's how my time has crumbled. I was a little
thrown at first because I wasn't sure who every one
was. In a way I didn't think that mattered-but in
another way I thought it did. Now I think I know (my
own version at least). For the sound's sake how about
'is still fresh
though without water'?
For me 'booth photograph' stopped the flow a little.
But altogether a good expression of your gift! bw,
cara
-- Christina Fletcher <[log in to unmask]>
wrote: > Connections
>
>
> Here, in a glass bowl,
> is the heather we picked
> on Ilkley Moor in August.
>
> The deep berry dye
> that stained my hand
> has washed away
>
> but the pale purple heather
> is still fresh,
> though it has no water.
>
> I've been thinking about mothers,
> thinking about love - wondering
> why I never felt
>
> an urge to hold babies,
> why pregnant bellies
> shocked and disgusted me.
>
> Your yellow curtains
> throw sunlight across your room
> and your walls
>
> are patched with photos
> of Gus and Nell
> and older generations.
>
> I see the likeness -
> a genetic pattern -
> grandmother, mother, daughter.
>
> My mother's house
> displayed one booth photograph
> wedged in a silver frame.
>
> After she died, I discovered
> that she'd kept everything -
> the slightest sketch, the smallest note.
>
> Today, my neighbour's daughter
> crossed the stairwell barefoot,
> threw her arms around my neck,
>
> clung so close and tight
> and kissed my cheek
> for no reason.
>
> I have no idea why I write
> to tell you this, except
> I sense a connection.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> christina fletcher
>
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