I Remember Copyright © Jen Overett 2011

my mother’s white ankle socks
and blue tennis skirt (she would
never wear shorts) as she left
our house to play badminton.

For years she played in the team
for the village or the town.
She had strong arms, often came home
laughing, her perm a little loosened.

Now she stands on the step
to wave me goodbye, has to hold on
to my dad to stay straight, though (always
a little fierce) won’t have us mention it.

These days she rails against cyclists,
and men in pink shirts,
the unknown and untamed,
the dark sea out there.

A good solid cook, now it’s ready meals
from Asda, her daily pills and pain,
their sweet shared routine,
while new life whizzes by outside.

She keeps an ordered home,
loves her husband fondly, deeply,
domestically, prays daily for
her children and her grandchildren,

her face lighting up
like a young woman
returning from playing badminton
when we arrive at the door.