to my mother
It’s the being left behind
I can’t believe:
me stranded on this shore
and glimpsing you,
too far out, too baffled by the crowd
of they might be twittering shoppers,
to notice that I stay.
I recognise you by
a look of panic, so faint
who else in the world would notice it,
as you stare back at the shore,
your set eyes blind to the same look
in these that reach out after you.
On nights like this
when with snow piled deep it is
too cold to snow any more
in the bitter wind,
I can’t get the thought of you out of my mind.
What I keep thinking of
is waking too early on a bright morning
and running to your bed, and jumping in.
On nights like this,
I can’t keep the tears back
at the thought of you –
out there in the dark, the snow your coverlet,
unwakably asleep.