‘I thought she was magic. Like the time
we went to pick llysiau duon bach
up on the mountain. I rolled the fruit
carefully between finger and thumb,
pleased with the patina that made them look
like mineral berries sweated out
of bitter bedrock. I heard a shout
and my mother said she’d see us back
at the house. We were ling-di-long,
stopped at the quarry to throw stones…
When we got in, a cooling rack
held two steaming pies, the washing-up done.
I was stunned and couldn’t work out
how her time had gone slower. ‘Short cut,’
they told me. But a lift
was the real answer. Then I knew
that mothers didn’t live in straight lines.
Her world was folded, she had a gift
for swiftness, sweetness and for telling lies.
My faith in directness was undermined.
I was always the plodder, a long way behind.’
llysiau duon bach: bilberries