Stealing
I slipped a slight knife
used by women
I never knew enough:
you dying too young
and your mother
who died before I was born.
Forged in Nuneaton
brick back-to-backs,
hands textile deft,
mill-song dreaming,
grafted to small town
parsimonious middle classness,
peeling home-stunted veg,
bruised bramley fallers.
Untimely legacy,
part of your unwilled bequest;
I felt it should be mine. It fitted
my hand; you held it
with me, taught me: Cut away;
pare those bad bits. Legally,
it was Dad’s
but there was a house-full
of sharper edges
with his new bride.
.
Myfanwy Fox is a writer based in Malvern. She occasionally blogs at https://myfanwyfox.wordpress.com/
The Poetry Shed 