It's the end of the line in my
mother's beige living room. The
sun is across the floor in dancing
spikes. She's weeping under the faded
print of two chrysanthemums. No tears
just the despair of age.
A fuse has tripped, she's clicked the
light switch until her fingers burn.
Nothing works. She's told me and god
and me again down her black, heavy
phone. Why is the world like
this? What have I done?
Now, together we must face the
faulty future - me standing there with
my yellow screwdriver and
my poultice of fuse-wire,
her with her poor hair
and her need which
clings to us both until we keel
wishing that wisdom would help
but knowing it can't.
published by Seren Books - paperback. 1-85411-296-1 - 6.95 - to order
Peter Finch: archive
at peterfinch dot co dot uk
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