Mother

You were like a little bird

and you lived inside your bed,

and the sheet was yellowed under your feet

and I wondered if you were dead.

You rarely made me breakfast

but you sometimes made me lunch.

I’d no idea what depression was

but I guess I had a hunch.

From a young age I’d hated him

for how he spoke to you, I cried

and tried to get between,

I wanted to rescue you.

And yet you’d never let things go

and that really made me sad;

I guess it made me angry,

and I sympathised with dad.

He’d sometimes pick you up from work

and I’d be next to him.

If you were late getting out, he’d wait

spot you, then drive off in a spin.

And he’d call you fucking useless

and he’d call you nasty cunt

and I heard he told the girls you were a dog,

which confused them - they didn’t have one.

As a girl you were a beauty;

you could have been a model.

Dad was nineteen when he met you,

you sixteen - it was a doddle.

You were a stunning young mother,

with your eyes open wide.

And dad was good to you,

until the day your father died.

Then your blue sky turned thunderous

and your protector turned to captor.

And your flat became a prison,

and your bruises were redacted.

And the family kept secrets

And you were too scared to tell,

for you’d probably have gotten the blame,

you were terrified of him as well.

And so you put up with his shit,

and his lack of passion became the norm.

And the flies that dogged your window

now had turned into a swarm.

You lost so many teeth;

you lost so much weight too.

Your stomach was in pieces,

you struggled on the loo.

And though for so long I blamed you

for preserving me in that mess,

I know you loved us deeply

and I see you tried your best.

I learned so much from you,

and so did my own wife.

I learned that love’s not a weapon -

not something to weigh upon another.

it takes courage to put down the knife;

it takes more strength to lift your lover.

And here’s the simple twist of fate:

if your heart’s true, then 
it’s never too late.