My mother danced in the kitchen.
Her and I, tiny.

Toes tripping over uneven tiles,
air around us thick with fervent fragrance, affection,

banana bread baking and
wisteria blown in through an open window.

It’s terrible to have rhythm, she said.

Quickstep and spinning and
her apron at right angles to the floor.

Sometimes the radio was on.

Anyway, her own ruminations so mellifluous,
music emanated from her mind.

And she sang.

At four when she swapped wisteria for juniper
it soaked her soul and sapped her spirit, sinking into shadows
sulking silently in the settling sun

and she swayed for secret reasons.
Dismantled movements,
dancing partners separate.

Grace gone
and she lost her voice
and the sweet lyrics became laments
and tears
and now
she didn’t know me.


From: The Saint Of Travellers © 2018 David Webb

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