A Journey Poem by Sally A Mortemore

Raindrops lace my face' reflection 
puddles rippling mists on glass our train 
rattling passed the 1960s office building 
where my father principally pushes paper 
sifting the daily tedium 
and local government reports

And so I watch the condensation run in rivulets 
the wooden guttering puttering the water
my four year old fingers dabbling in curiosity
whilst hating the buttons down my 
peter-pan collared check-striped frock

My mother reads her Woman's Weekly 
slender ankles neatly crossed beneath her 
picture-perfect-french-grey-navy-woolsey-linen A-line skirt 
And as the countryside grows into the city 
London's lights invigorate her heart

We skip Marylebone's musty platforms-sinking into Bakerloo's underground - the housekeeping already charring the deep-red of her leatherette purse - then on - to seething Oxford Street - the people pavement-grey - black hats above austere faces-dark coats skimming worn-out souls - their sadness puddles deep enough to cloud my patent shoes

I lose my mother's grasp and climb 
the red bus heaving deck-on-deck 
unseen amongst the nylon'd legs of women 
escaping town and country

But i have no fear whereas my mother - in her awakening 
insists pursuit whilst i watch - apparently defiant
then after that 
this page is blank

And yes she loved me my departed mother 
even though i sometimes felt i was a cross she had to bare 
arriving in her life too late and ashamedly a big mistake
and yet i never really 'knew' until some twenty-four years later
grief for my father buried deep beneath the ground
for that was when she deigned to hug me 
after the longest ever bus ride in maternal history

Sally A Mortemore  2023