6000 Miles and 30 Years Away

Old world spirits must be overrunning this country; How else to explain this poetry coming into my hand After all these years.

Must be the autumn lights,

Same as childhood's.

My mother was a poetess.

Father was a writer and a storyteller.

She wore a scarf.

Emily was the name she would have chosen for herself. Her long autumnal hair, lifted by iambic breezes.

She wrote a book of poetry.

I never saw it.

Father had all the instincts.

She didn't wear her motherhood so easily.

Father left school to be a father and a husband.

One day. Mother left home to be a poet.

One day, she left the country.

One day, she left the world.