I miss my Mum by Rosemary McLeish

I miss my Mum

I miss my Mum.
I’m in trouble and I miss my Mum.
My Mum who never mothered me,
who turned her back on troubles,
who said I brought her shame and sorrow.

I miss my Mum.
The one I plotted secretly to kill
a thousand ways, a childhood long.
The one whose bitter pill I took,
the medicine every girl chokes on.

I miss my Mum.
My Mum who hugged me first when I was 38.
My Mum who never kissed it better.
My Mum who never listened.
I’m in trouble and I miss my Mum.

I missed my Mum last night.
She read a story to me once,
though I could read myself.
She drew a picture of a low white house,
a cat, a doll, a fireplace.

I’m in trouble. I want her here.
To hear her voice, to touch her face,
to soothe away her sorrows,
to hear her stories once again,
to stroke her back as she lies crying.

I miss the mothering I didn’t get
but gave. I’ve lost the knack,
now I need it in the night.
Her voice echoing in my head says
“You’re too old for this.

Stop it, go back to bed now.
Fuss about nothing, silly girl,
suffering is the lot of woman.
You’d better just get used to it.
The trouble with you is ....”

Ah, the trouble with me is
I’m in trouble and I miss my Mum.

​

Rosemary McLeish came to poetry late in life. She had her first collection, "I am a Field", poems of place and nature, published in January this year at the age of 73. She has been mostly keeping her poems under her hat for the best part of 30 years, while teaching herself to make art and following many false trails. She was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer eighteen months ago, which was the prod which has stopped her procrastinating. You can find out more about her at: Rosie's Artistic Creations | in various media

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