Central

I like, ‘between’. It’s not right. It’s not left.

It’s smack in the middle, like a chin with a cleft.

Like a sandwich made, with bread on each side,

The centre is where all the lovely bits hide.

It’s not in the fast lane or the lane that’s too slow,

It’s somewhere between, and it goes with the flow.

It’s under the duvet, not under the bed,

A mattress below, a pillow for head.

The finger that’s centred says a lot, when you ponder;

Elevating a pinky or thumb? People wonder.

Political persuasion is not of what I speak.

It’s being the mum each day of the week.

The core of the apple, though not to my liking,

Holds the seeds that become future inviting.

A middling position among those that are close,

How strange would a face look without any nose?

Enclosed within flesh and right at the heart,

Is the place that I choose, not the horse or the cart,

But the contents within, being pulled right along

Like the refrain that is sung after verse of each song.

The point of the circle, circumference surrounds,

With mother at centre, all love, those, surrounds.

So, finger is raised, two held down on each side,

I’m at the centre. And I say it with pride.

One digit to join it and the V that we see,

Becomes, Victory for woman, for mother, for we.

Not crushed underfoot,

Not proud and aloof,

Not under the ground,

Nor, looking down, from a roof.

But, standing quite firmly, on her own two feet,

Legs spread akimbo, ever ready to greet,

What life throws her way,

How she catches the missile,

How she views it and moulds it,

Becomes wine with the vessel.

Harbouring thoughts and love quite eternal.

Yes, Woman, is central – the beautiful kernel.

Advertisement