Waiting

LETTERS FROM A SAINT

What gives me the right

to say that?

What gives me the right

to call myself a saint?

You may well ask.

Let’s begin with God’s definition

being somewhat different

to that declaimed by world.

I have no earliest early memory

They conglomerate

a diverse range.

Decorating mounds

of mashed potato

populating them

with carrot cubes and peas.

Mum sitting patiently

Flying, swooping

chopped veg laden

plane/spoons.

Imbedded in aforesaid mash

into reluctant hangar mouth-ed

infants.

Gathering hailstones

Excitedly showing

frozen treasures to

Mum, industriously joyful

creating our new coverings

Her warm sewing machine

The resting place

For our jeweled finds.

Leaving for safekeeping

We wondered

At finding only water

when we came back with more.

Younger brother,

squeezing

a lumpy poo

popping to the surface

immediate exodus for us

the others ,

Leaving younger

laughing uproariously.

Mum’s best necklace

Of venetian glass.

Un-stringing it

dividing the beads

between my younger and I.

To eat,

as you do at three.

The thrashing I received

for making him eat glass.

He should have been safe in his playpen

The secret bush,

Our hiding place

My secret praying place.

Sitting squashed for hours

between said bush and fence,

The big red bull behind it.

The big red bull.

Often near

he was solitary too.