The Weight Of This House Poem by Arthur H Rowley

I remember a time, less than fondly,
when I cried on my mother's shoulders
plagued by ill heath and the weight of my senses

With the shroud of a new darkness laid on my shoulders
I think 'I want to be loved by my mother'
and rush to write of her
but now I am here
light on, pen in hand, writing scratching and tilted
it all escapes me again
I am birthed here, in distraction,
inspiration tricking away down the window pane

If I am to write, as I may still wish to,
how can I speak of love and pain and patience
if I cannot speak first of my mother?
Of chipped nail, tied hair, highlighted text books
of not controlling my adolescent rage and pain
just creating somewhere warm for it to rest

Even now, drenched in passing time and climbing age,
she tells me "we are safe here, we are warm"
so I listen, and write,
in the hopes that soon
she and I may rest