Mum Poem by Robert Melliard

She experienced moments of rapture
at the sight of a robin, a snowdrop,
primroses, bluebells, a squirrel,
an ancient oak
and so much else,
in gardens, woods or fields.

She gave me that ability,
whether by nature or nurture,
or a little of both.

I thanked her for it once.

Her sensibility did much to make up
for unceasing, unfair criticism
of my dutiful, patient father.

She desperately needed company
but as a housewife was alone
till dad got home, exhausted
from London and commuting.

In the mornings, those who delivered
milk, eggs, bread or whatever
were invited in for tea or coffee,
and home-made cake or biscuits.
In return, they chatted.
If they had done that everywhere,
they wouldn't have finished their rounds.

Neighbours may have been suspicious
at how long their vans were parked
outside our warm, tense home.
But all my mother needed was to talk.