Sons


Drawings of shells
litter her attic,
we'd no knowledge
she'd art in her.

Art was something we did
at school or Saturday classes
till around the end of primary school.

My brothers and me
were knee deep in mud
at football; Glastonbury;
helping Dad farm.

Of what Mum did at home
we knew nothing –
the food always ready,
the laundry done.

We never knew either why she left
him, and us, suddenly, one January,
took a house by the sea,
had women friends, her life revolved around

waiting for the grandchildren
none of us three sons gave her.

Today, with our shoulders
under her box
the weight of her
weighs upon us.