Mother Dear

It never was the Meissen that she threw but dinner plates, of which we had so few our dad would have a scar upon his head and breakfast plate was just a slice of bread The kitchen knife was brandished now and then to emphasize who was the Mother Hen; and we? We justly cowered in our beds; threw our meagre covers ‘oer our heads. She wore a mini skirt and beehive hair when she was sure my father was not there then took us visiting our “uncle Stan” When asked, we had just visited our gran. A Babycham and brandy was her thing that was, without, or with, her wedding ring and all the men in all the bars, they knew, and told, they simply had to form a queue. And yet, when knees were scraped and hugs required it was from mother they were most desired The distance that our father held from her meant any love for him, was just a blur.