She tells me she’s pregnant
Her mother is dead
I wish she could be here
The little girl said
And suddenly flood gates
Explode in my head
Me giving birth
On a hospital bed
Me with my daughter
And my mother dead
Oh look at her, Mummy
She’s lovely
I said
*
© Gail Foster 7th September 2017
Mother’s Day is an emotional time, especially for folk who no longer have their Mums around. My mother is long gone, bless her. She died at this time of year, in 1990. I wrote this last year for Mother’s Day, and the coming of Spring. It’s actually a celebration of her so no need for tears.
*
My mother’s coffin on the bier, up the cobbled steps to St. Mary’s church. My babe folded warm to my breast. Green turf on the hill and the early cry of lambs upon the Plain. Warm breath, warm wind, the knell of an ancient bell, solemn steps up to the sacred temple, dedicated to His mother, The Mother, all mothers, my mother.
For Spring is a dying in itself. My child stirs. She waited for him before her passing. I pressed him to her breast as she lay dying, her window open, bright gifted daffodils a-stirring on the sill. I took a photograph and have it still. My mother, blessed in her helplessness, still fierce in her humility, with a twinkle in her eye, a warm smile and her only grandchild in her arms.
Funeral over and back in the light my son and I await new life.
*
by Gail
We have said farewell to David
How we wish he had been there
To see how much we loved the s*d
And how we did our hair
He would have loved the eulogy
In which he got a mention
For David always loved to be
The centre of attention
He would have liked the humour
Had a hanky for the tears
Been astounded at the love he had
To show for all his years
He would have wept to see us weeping
Would have made a funny joke
Not one much for nonsense
A ‘geezer’ sort of bloke
A man who worked with chemistry
Who painted and played chess
Who liked music and black humour
And admired a pretty dress
Two different lives, three families
So many made the trip
From different worlds, from far away
His blood, his fellowship
He would have loved the readings
Would have looked well to this day
And nodded at Corinthians
In a wise and knowing way
He would have said “Look after Margaret”
And run after Michelle
Then winked at Dick and hugged his son
And others he knew well
I thought I saw him in the corner
Saw him sitting in a chair
Serenity personified
For just a moment there
*
He really loved ‘Jerusalem’
We sang that b*gger loud
My God, we scrubbed up bl**dy well
And did the b*gger proud
*
by Gail
for Ian Diddams, and my Dad
*
So what’s the crack with rugby?
My father used to play
He’d come home with an injury
Every other day
My mother used to worry
He was quite deaf to her fears
Her futile protestations fell
On cauliflower ears
Oh so many broken bones
As trophies he would wear
Those would be the only times
I heard my mother swear
My father didn’t drink much
He didn’t do the pub
But he’d sink some with the other lads
In the rugby club
He had a book of rugby songs
Some of them were crude
Dinah, Dinah, show us yer leg
And other ones more rude
A weird way to learn about
Sex and funny stuff
Sex ed in the seventies
Was really pretty rough
Now I watch a rugby game
And find the blokes quite hot
Got to love a massive thigh
And firmly muscled bott
Oh how they thunder up the pitch
And grunt and sweat and shout
Got to love testosterone
It’s what it’s all about
Never mind the odd shaped ball
Shape doesn’t make me frown
It’s how they chuck the thing that counts
And how they smack it down
The scrum’s a thing to marvel at
A tad homo erotic
What if someone breaks their neck
Not sport for the neurotic
And then there is the line dancing
And shouting things in code
Like massive noisy warriors
With faces streaked with woad
Not partial to the gumshields
I suppose they save the grief
Of ruining a toothpaste smile
And choking on the teeth
The thing I don’t quite understand
Is how they pass the ball
What’s the crack with backwards?
I don’t get that at all
I’m a girl who loves a tryer
It’s hardly a perversion
It just don’t get more exciting
Than a finely placed conversion
Snorting mist like horses
Hot blokes running free
Imagine the baths afterwards
Oh it’s all too much for me
I have memories of autumn
Fields all churned up with mud
My Dad and Son played rugby
There’s some rugby in my blood
So, here’s my final word on this
Rugby’s hot, but makes me sad
For when I think of rugby
It reminds me of my Dad
*
Love you, Dad
*
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 