Right through Christmas to New Year I load up with fleeting Christmas cheer, see the new year roll in upon a tide of fog. Regret never falls into line, sadnesses rear their ugly heads in dreams and waking too. The washing line of time swings into view of all the old routines, wrung through the wringer of times gone by: my mother’s red hands on washing day, helping her turn the mangle, recalling silences engendered by little money & no time to fix and mend the broken shards of times gone by. My mother’s face is carved into the tattered lineaments of my pulsing brain her dark hair threaded with silver remains the same.
