Remembering Mum

Joan M Clinock 17

Joan Margaret Clinock. 1915 – 2004.

 In January 2004 I was in my mother’s house in England. She had recently died, age 88, and being a single child I was sorting out her home alone. I sat at her dining room table, the same table I had sat at so often as a child, and wrote this for her. I post it today in love and memory of love given without limits for so many years. I will always miss you mum, always.

 The cyclamen still blooms

on your windowsill,

in colours of a Canadian sunrise

covered in tears of rain.

I want to tell you how beautiful it is

but I can’t find you.

I suppose that I am an orphan now,

an old gray child crying for his mum

in a house empty of you.

Yet I embrace your life in me

as once you embraced my life in you.

I am who I am because of you

and who you were.

And all you gave to me

I now give to my sons.

And they, in turn, will pass it on.

And so the circle is unbroken

and you will live in us.

When I was a child

you dispersed my shadows

with your light

and my sadness with your smile.

And after every storm

You were my sunshine.

You hated cold and dark,

loved the sun and long summer days.

But although it is winter

on this windy coast

you would like it here today

because the warmth and brightness

of your dearest friends

and their flowers of farewell

have touched this place with spring.

Soon you will join your husband

under the wild Cornish sky

that you both loved so much,

and your spirits will be free

to wander the ancient sea and hills

in the wind that lifts gulls

above the rocks and heather.

And I will think of you

there together

and be still.