I've been very touched by the amount of people who read
the story in the Irish Examiner and who've made contact with me in one way or
another.
It got me thinking about a poem I'd written a long time back. It was about
my mother's hands. I realised I didn't have a copy of it anymore, but like all
words that come from a place deep inside, they never really leave you.
So I've
put the poem below. I hope you enjoy it. The angels referred to are the two
children my mother lost. Many others have suffered too, but here are a few small
words about her.
The image below is of my Mom as a young girl. At the very bottom are YouTube links to Mount Pleasant Buildings and the poverty within it. Thank you.
My Mother’s Hands
Her hands held little
fingers with cold front door keys,
wrapped a red coat
over,
protecting me from more than
rain,
pushed prams, peeled spuds,
no lady hands, but lady
owned.
skin like alabaster, soft
not weak,
hands of pain, hands of an
optimistic soul,
sprouting blood bubbles in
pin-pricked old age,
folded quietly in gentle
melancholy,
stolen by her mind’s
disease,
in death as in life,
angels drawn.
Part 1 of 2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJhtNOkB07I
Part 2 of 2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9t3L-FPpd9U
