Through the Eyes of My Beloved, My Mother

Sitting this morning head in hand starting at my bedroom wall; I remember my mother sitting like this her tired eyes boring holes into the sheetrock or the streetlight outside our house I remember my mother sitting like this, I would ask her what is it Mumma? what are you thinking of? And she would reply nothing, oh nothing, and she would get up to get some more coffee or to think some more from the kitchen window Sitting like this head in hand in the mornings boring my own holes into my own sheetrock wall or the telephone polls outside my window, now I know what nothing is.