Letter to Mum


Dear Mum,

I can’t give this to you or send it but maybe if I write something down it will help me and, if I can clarify my thoughts and feelings, I’ll be able to talk to you.

There’s a hole in me that’s you-shaped. I miss knowing you; knowing that you’re down the road, physically present. I miss not being able to show my love for you. The love I had and have for you – only for you – has nowhere to go. The love of a child for its parent is exactly that. Where can I send it? It isn’t lost. It hasn’t gone. But I’ve nowhere to give it or send it.

Maybe when Dad died I was able to take that love and give more of it to you. But you’re both gone now and the love is trapped inside of me. It wells up and makes me cry.

Maybe without your own parents and without my Dad you took all of that love and transferred it to us – your children and your grandchildren. I felt the measure of that love and I miss that too.

How exactly were you able to transfer it? If that is what you did. Or maybe no – one ever can. Some loves are just for some people. The love I have for all the people in my life stems from the same source but the difference is there in each one.

I want to reach out my arms to you and hear you speak to me. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what I’ll hear and that I won’t cope with your words. Maybe you’re already speaking and I’m refusing to listen.

How Can I Love Them More?

How can I love them more than I do?

How can I show them they are the world to me?

What more can I do than I already do

To allow my love to grow in them?

I could spend more time in pleasures with them

Instead of always bemoaning the housewife realities.

The chores I take upon as mother

Drown the time I could have as mum.

To share with them time spent in books and games and pleasures

To picnic on the floor and not to mind the mess

To laugh when they laugh and not to heed the rest.

To expect and to receive some time alone for me

And for them when they have need of it.

How can I love him more?

How can I show him that he means so much to me?

To be there with my arms open and not on my hips.

To speak softly more often than shrill.

To welcome his loving advances and to make some.

Not to count the cost as time lost,

In terms of work still needing done.

These are just some.


Frank Sleeps

My husband waits

Asleep in bed

His hand supports

His weary head.

His body cries its need of rest,

Still another need

Lies in his breast.

This need shall be aroused in me

When I slip beside him quietly.

I’ll take his head upon my breast

And though he has a need for rest

His ardour will become a flame

He will call his wife by my own name.

And when his passion is all spent

He’ll fall to sleep, be heaven-sent.

And this new rest

Will fell his head

Upon his pillow – soft yet firm.

And I will have had my need of him.