John Horder

MOTHER
after a literal translation from the Hungarian from
a version of Attila Jozsef's original poem

For a week now, in fits and starts,
I have been thinking of one thing only - my mother.
With creaking basket set against her lap
She went up to the loft
Went busily.

I still held that most precious thing of all - my integrity.
I raged, I roared
I bawled all over the place.
Insisted on her leaving the clothes behind
And take ME up to the loft with her!

She just went
Spreading out the clothes in complete silence
Did not scold
Or even look down at me.
The bright colours of her clothes swished and swirled.

But now I would not so much as snivel or skulk
And now it's much too late for any of that.
I still see her for the giant figure she is.
She is the sky and her grey hairs hover over the blue
Dissolving at once by a stroke of every fine brushwork.

John Horder © world copyright 2009