I'm currently studying BSL. This is another true story (coz it turns out there's only so far mythology, seasons, and number associations can take me when it comes to poetry! :D).
She spins words out of
Thin air - spare, yet
Layered, and rich with
The craft of years.
Each sentence an efficient
Dance, each reprimand
Precise - a mallet tap
To guide the hapless.
Time maps out between
Her palms as she releases
Double-helix secrets
From her flesh,
Pressing memory
From liminal
To visible.
Somehow, last week,
We asked the magic
Question after months
Of feckless repetition and then
New dimensions trembled open,
Lotus-like, as petals
Bloomed from spikes,
Rare smiles scattered,
Drifted into place.
And we apprentices
Kept pace -
This new softness
All a portrait of
Her daughter and her
Clever ways who makes
Waves and wishes
With her mother,
And thunder with her
Distant father.
Our teacher's eyes glow,
Holding up this picture
Of her child - the one
Who knows so many worlds,
Whirling sure-foot,
Balancing on sleighted hands
And landing,
Wrapped in love
From every side.
Heart open wide,
Her mother smiles
And we nod, silent,
Thankful for this glimpse,
This trust, this touch,
This brimming image
Of what unguarded happiness
A parent's love can bring.
No comments:
Post a Comment