~
my harassed mother called it
a lick and a promise, at best it was a
hurried spit wash around my mouth
from a dampened corner of her apron,
her usual rough rub made with love that
still smarted three streets away
as I cycled to meet my mates,
only now have I come to I realise that’s
how people live on in one’s memory,
in their sayings, habits, doings and actions,
how I wish I had kept her bleached
white copper stick, that she used to lift
washing from the boiler and importantly
to dispense summary justice to me for
having the temerity to answer her back,
I often absentmindedly thumb the scar
on my elbow, a much-prized defence wound
that still affords me a wry smile
*
© Graham R Sherwood 04/24
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 