Saturday; a poem

I wrote this poem when my daughter left home to live in Brazil.

At the airport

No strolling out one summer’s morn,

Almost, she strides from the fading wintery sun.

Gone the hesitant step of yesterday

The whys? What ifs? And When?

Have all been asked.

Each kilo weighed and unweighed

Every winter woollie put away to grieve,

Instead summer slithers fit each crevice to offer protection from the sun.

Each strap strained and pulled

The planes face west, more west.

No rest now,

The plans come to an end and new plans awaken.

Lorca, Neruda and Laurie Lee you are to blame,

But even you she has laid aside with love I know.

You will not pay the rent or mediate with officials

But wait,

Your political poems and plays – prize winning language of love,

Neruda’s green ink of hope,

Will nourish her mind and remind her from where she came.

This all seems like a lifetime away and much has happened; perhaps another poem would read quite differently. I think novel might appear,  or a soap opera with its joys and disappointments.  

Over the last few months I think we might have forgotten that we are just a couple of gals finding our way and sometimes we loose the path and even our footing and tumble.  At times we feel that we will never get back on track [what and wherever that is] but until we do … my prayer to the one who listens is that I remember ‘ I would rather love/live and be lost than to never to have loved/lived at all’