Nearly No Memory

Myopic eyes with specs’ transparent frames,
shy look and wealth of auburn hair,
my mother in that teenage photo
is posed by her dad, both hands behind her head;
and I can see him ruffle that hair,
patting her head by way of compensation
(not being granddad’s favourite)
and how I would resent it,
mum treated like a child in middle age!

But stubborn soul, you’ve outlived them all.
Now your husband’s name comes back
and where it was you married.
I try to stir a memory
of wedding snaps by South Marine Park
or how your parents treated you –
a child playing hide-and-seek with them,
one never to be found.

Still, Mum, with nearly no memory,
you’re happy – you say – living in the now
where frosty winter sunlight dazzles
as it peers across the garden
with beyond that bramble wood, the trees,
and beyond them our identities.