MAM

Dust in their mouths, when they needed food,

they are poor, they are brave, they have dreams.

To remain is to starve, to leave is to live,

Yorkshire's the place to be, it is deemed.

Sadness and sorrow as Mam hears the words,

a brave face, a false smile, a straight back.

Head held high as she crosses the boards,

the mice scurry through the crack.

She's tired, hungry and can fight no more,

her aching frame moves crates from the wall.

She reaches behind and along the floor,

to secure her treasures, this is her call.

Letters, clippings, photographs,

treasures of the past, fingers linger and savour,

a tear falls from the eye.

Not much to pack and move,

this will be her last,

Gold signet ring passed to the next in line,

for you my son when you are ready.

Earrings of my mother, these too will be thine,

the watch chain you made me when you were a we'un,

all these are yours my son when you are steady

Letters have been read over and again,

know them by heart, from father they came.

Not wishing to read them, they cause too much pain,

not here to help her, who does she blame.

Two gold cuff links, passed down the line,

from her father, and left in her care.

One sold to feed the family so divine,

the other for Mike, a son so rare.

Letters are memories stored in her mind,

don't need them, best to let go.

Memories are stored, never left behind,

writings that never leave her thoughts.

Her treasures fixed firmly in her head,

the letters are burnt, now they are dead.

Tears they are falling, all around her feet,

father and daughter will again one day meet.

Mike Coatesworth