WET DAYS

WET DAYS

It was Monday
Everyone at school or not yet born.
I remember every square in the pavement.
Wet days remind me of mum wearing a sad face,
Walking towards the village determined
To fill shopping bags with the beginnings
Of busy meals for milling children.
It was the only time I felt close.
Sometimes she’d say something,
Tell me who lived in which house
And how nice they kept their gardens.
In days when it rained
Our closeness dissolved in stooped shoulders,
The anticipated heavy bags, against the rain.
When the sun kinder, other women
stopped to chat;
I didn’t like that,
They came into our space,
Mine, mums and cracked pavements.
She measured her marriage against other couples
Who passed in cars, or walked side by side
Chatting, smiling, swinging shopping bags in unison.
Too proud to carry shopping or feelings -
My dad; being a farmer,
Never looked inside the heart.
On rainy days he was in the pub
Until closing-time.　
At home, he opted for sleep and
Peaceful isolated dreams.
Mum pulled the scarf around her head,
The wind flapped her mackintosh,
Her slim legs moved purposely through life.