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Motherland
See her there, on her ninety-fifth birthday
in her kitchen
nested in her knickknacks,
commemorating dead royals, cats
behind her
a row of clean knives that yearn for meat
that must learn to live with ready meals
the occasional touch of a lean tomato
plastic flowers in dustless glassware, that
have pulled themselves to
deathless attention
She is the survivor in his pinnacle of bloom
of cluttered complicated room
In which she lives
she is beyond career, family, lovers
proud, disinterested in her nudging oblivion.
She is the hand of a clock,
turning forward, turning back
with one true function, that she is perfect for
to follow the day, memorialise each
moment
show me how to live
there,
one of the ancients, walking with precision
on cold kitchen tile in her bright blue shoes.
Alan Hill explores landscape and memory, mental health and wellness, absurdity and meaning; occasionally nailing something, although he is not sure what. His latest book is In the Blood (Caitlin Press, 2022).