(for my Mother)


Swing the mattock

Slice the baked clay


Flints, chalk

The blade works through

marrow of roots

fashions the six foot plot


Cotton seals my mother's nose    mouth

... Her rings           favourite dress

I do not know you

earth           sun-brown

rills onto teak

                over final flowers


I am standing farewell

Then           Tonight

Your lips still

Your mask chalk