The Story*

She told me the story over some Earl Grey
and Jaffa cakes. The tea and cakes were nothing
special, but on that day the air seemed a little heavy
and she sighed often, before finally taking a sip.

So began the story of a summer from her teens,
of sun, sand and uncensored first love, played out to
the sounds of Joan Baez and disapproving families,
before its tragic and sudden end.

I listened, surprised by my own emotion, and when
I left that day, the tea and cakes remained tragically
untouched on the table and I understood-
after 30 years, I had finally met my mother.



*Inspired by another's story and the potential damage
of long held family secrets.

Reflecting within myself-
I get lost in a

feeling of longing that 

is undoubtedly tinged

with the open wound of

my own unwavering guilt.

Like shadow puppets, the

arresting images play
upon my mind and fill
my heart with a wantful ache.

The puppets still, but
guilt and want make
only prisoners of
the mind-
I am a prisoner.

   

Now she merely mumbles, but what of the
past nights' scenes of domestic violation.
She battered her shores with such force
that the sailless boats tolled their bells
in anticipation of a death.
As these words hit the page, she raises
a gentle roar, a reminder of her strength,
but also her control.
I watch her warily, not just because of
her power, but her beauty.