Margaret Poem by Ian Keenan

Somehow her mum
Looked Scottish,
A jutting lower lip
And beady blue eyes.

I saw her most days
When walking home from
School,
She waiting for her daughter,
Margaret.

We used to ride our bikes up the back lane,
Throwing stones
Down her garden path.

Now Margaretlives near Glasgow,
Close to the sons
That her mother would
Have loved
To tell off for swearing,

Before hugging them to sleep
With a kiss.