Sometimes she speaks through gritted teeth

To herself, admonishingly. She, unforgiven,

Riven by frustration. So hard on herself: 

A mother, a lover, a woman who writes poetry with

Her eyes. Disguises truth with flashes of beauty

Remembers the older the fiddler, the sweeter the tune

Closes her eyes as she suddenly mounts to a crescendo

Of temper, that leaves her sobbing, inhaling huge

Breaths, gripping my hand as in the delivery

Room as we listened to 'Avalon' by Bryan Ferry,

Laughed at the smiling eyes of the obstetrician 

A carnation in his lapel, down at the business end ,

Bringing a baby with loving sisters into a space that'd

Been vacated by their brother, six years previously.