Mother's Day Poem
and an appeal for my father
Mother's Day is on March 30th. What better present than a luxurious packet of our sumptuous, feather-lightmarshmallows through the post? Along with a lie-in of course. 
My father wrote the tender lines below, about my grandmother.
 His latest collection of poems is out today.


Dinner with my Mother



My mother is saying 'Now'.

'Now,' she says, taking down a saucepan,

putting it on the stove.

She doesn't say anything else for a while,

so that time passes slowly, on the simmer,

until it is 'Now' again
as she hammers out our steaks
for Steak Diane.
 
I have to be on hand at times like this
for table-laying
drink replenishment
and general conversational encouragement,
 
but I am getting hungry
and there is nowhere to sit down.
'Now,' I say, making a point
of opening a bottle of wine.
 
My mother isn't listening. 
She's miles away,
testing the sauce with a spoon,
narrowing her eyes through the steam.
 
'Now,' she says very slowly, meaning
which is it to be,
the rosemary or the tarragon vinegar
for the salad dressing?
 
I hold my breath, lest anything
should go wrong at the last minute.
But now it is really 'Now',
our time to sit and eat.

On another note, my own mother and I have started a Facebook search here for an angelic kidney donor, as Dad, now on dialysis for three years, is in urgent need of one, before he is too ill for a transplant. Please join and spread the word.