The Grave at Mt Jerome.
I look at my mother’s grave…
her ashes in a ground devoid of flowers…..
locked down amongst the tombstones and grey
shadows fall.
Perhaps the silent eloquence of stars
may bring comfort to her cinder bones at night.
She was brave , maybe that will help ?
There is nothing to see. Nothing.
Nothing of her
Not her skin nor her breath.
I shall not return …
I’m leaving here .…
I’ll go to Schiedam where my mother’s life began.
Picture her young child face in the canal ripple
at Lange Haven….
Sense her walking on a Sunday morning
over the swell of the wrought iron bridge
in her button boots and scarf…
early morning on her cheeks..
on her autumn chestnut curls.
And I will feel that she is there
alighted on the Schiedam breeze.
close to those turning windmills
wings batting one by one…
And that will be familiar and alright.
Kristine Byrne Jan 2014- 2015.