In Dublin’s Avoca café, I’m almost at home.
Kitchen bustle, clink of cup and glass
fresh coffee, scones, berry jam.
At the next table, the younger woman
places mother, fusses over the menu.
Have the soup mammy, it’s very good.
Mother, slim, veins like tributaries,
jaunty scarf - says she’d love a scone and hot chocolate
gets a scold about cholesterol.
I think of my mother. Our illicit late-night suppers.
Tablecloth, good china, pancakes, toasties.
And the ritual cigarette that later took her precious breath.
I dare not look up. Head down, back to my book.
Kitchen bustle, clink of cup and glass
fresh coffee, scones, berry jam.
At the next table, the younger woman
places mother, fusses over the menu.
Have the soup mammy, it’s very good.
Mother, slim, veins like tributaries,
jaunty scarf - says she’d love a scone and hot chocolate
gets a scold about cholesterol.
I think of my mother. Our illicit late-night suppers.
Tablecloth, good china, pancakes, toasties.
And the ritual cigarette that later took her precious breath.
I dare not look up. Head down, back to my book.
