Aubade

My mother leaned against dreams.
                        Listen carefully;
she did not row above the river of thought,
she did not bleed a flower of imagination –
my mother leaned against dreams.
On a morning when her children rose in sunlight
to squeeze the kitchen back to waking,
and the table found its legs like a foal,
the black cooker shook its head,
chairs were branches in wind.
In the renewed silence of being,
white bread breathed in and out
where curtains which had been clouds
fell once more to their tasks;
at this time when one pale child or other
rose like a reflection from a well,
her face grew strange.

                        Listen carefully.

My mother leaned against dreams;
her face grew strange,
rose like a reflection from a well
at this time.  When one pale child or other
fell once more to their tasks
where curtains which had been clouds
and white bread breathed in and out,
in the renewed silence of being,
chairs were branches; in wind,
the black cooker shook its head
and the table found its legs like a foal.
To squeeze the kitchen back to waking,
on a morning when her children rose, in sunlight
my mother leaned against dreams:
she did not bleed; a flower of imagination,
she did not row.  Above the river of thought,

                        listen:  carefully

                           my mother leaned against dreams.