I saw her once – in person. A proud mother I thought, she stood calm and tall with such an open and steady face. I am drawn to use the word resolute, but it needs a softer word than that. She listened to speakers and clapped at the end. Eyes, mouth… as if every sense utterly aware of every thing, every nuance, as if there was anything she did, did well, it was to feel, to feel all, and to know all. To have to accept all? What horror. Those eyes that have seen. Knowing what was done to her boy.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts