Mum Poem by Alan Walsh

I stand and pause my fingers firmly pressed,
Peering in I see her silhouette and listen,
One..two..three breaths to confirm to myself,
The promise of another night can be kept.

My old sick Mother still breathing in the night,
Thinking her scolding and holding me another time,
Blowing on my swollen knee and listening softly,
Now she lives wizened and lies in a duvet demise.

Sometimes I hear her call curiously while asleep,
Is it a childhood friend that she knew before?
When her eyes were clear and hair was long,
Did she think then in her growing years,
A son would pray for her to breath and go on?