My mother wrote

My mother wrote to me
and, coming as it did,
so long awaited –
but not expected
I almost failed to
recognise it for what it was.
My heart at first misread,
the words so clearly seen
by eager eyes,
and as the pages fluttered
in my hands, like
precious cloth,
they gently wiped away
the long-remembered hurts.
And as I lingered
on those final lines:
‘Thankyou,
for being my daughter.’
the tears fell,
washing clean
my unforgiving heart.
But those few crumpled
sheets were more
than enough
to dry my eyes.

1990

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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