Dear Mum
Wish you were here!
El Medano reminds me of Swanage.
Sand, sea, sunshine, taut salty skin.
The tide of geological time turning as the waves wash in and out and in…
But then these days everywhere reminds me of Swanage.
Wish you were here
In that jumper I’d now give anything to possess, dad playing on the beach.
You camera shy just out of reach.
A pair of empty sandals* in the cradle of the deckchair.
There but not there.
(How I) wish you were here…
Dear Mum
Like many parents my mum and dad dutifully plotted their children’s travels around the world by sticking our postcards home to the downstairs toilet wall. Partly geography, partly social history, it’s a family A to Z covering literally everywhere from Aberystwyth (my stay-at-home sister) to Zanzibar (her globe-trotting baby brother). But follow the path (easier when you piss standing up) you’d see the journey comes to an abrupt end. By the U bend…
The sticker-upper-in-chief (our dad) died. And shortly afterwards so did the tradition of sending postcards because, let’s face(book) it, #holiday is a whole heap easier than buying a stamp and finding a postbox. Trouble is mum – like many women of her generation – has never really done social. “They’d have called in Wrinkly Facebook if it was for us,” she joked. Before dementia wiped the smile off all our faces. She’s still with us though. Her name is Sheila. And this poem is for her.
*This line was inspired by my mum’s sandals sitting on a deckchair in a family photograph I’d looked at a hundred times before but not properly seen. For me poetry is all about seeing things properly.
The poem was also written because I’d been asked to pen something on the theme of travel for The Big Live Breakfast Burrito on LinkedIn. If you haven’t listened check it out. I also penned an alternative based on the shows hosts...
Dear Mum
Wish you were here. You’d love Burritonia
Will couldn’t make it so I’m here with Antonia.
Eric’s the rep a right Tam o Shanter
With a fella called Matt who’s a bit of a Ranter
Then there’s a woman named Van – Vin Extraordinaire
And Simon (and Craig with a chin-ful of hair).
Day Two.
The sun’s been quite strong so Eric’s turned pink.
And Matt’s prone to whingeing so he’s kicked up a stink.
And Van’s poured a glass of Canarian wine.
Though it’s barely past breakfast and hasn’t struck nine.
Now Simon’s got factoids he can’t get the cream
Craig’s knitting his beard like he’s lost in a dream.
Antonia’s mouthing a mysterious word
And from Will only silence nothing’s been heard.
Wish you were here.