The Colour of SilenceA Poem by Chris ShawMy Mother - Lost in Limbo, in a nursing home for the last four years.
Heat on frozen lips, maternal steam.
Pleasing like the taste of Columbian coffee, or fingertips easing away those hapless cares on a lousy day. Bright as a hundred watt bulb, light illuminating a blackened room. She chases shadows. Brushes aside gloom tucked into tight corners. Lavender balm soothes and calms at the end of a phone. She embraces a sweeping view, moods of a fickle sea, she relates from cushioned comfort while sipping breakfast tea. Back arched in a carver chair, five counties east, as the crow flies, I hunger to hear her voice, receiver pressed to my ear. - There's a host of things I miss. I can still plant a kiss when I visit, yet it's the phone calls and the chats and the fact that she can't converse which hurts most. But her eyes reflect her soul. She is neither here nor there and her empty stare speaks volumes.
© 2019 Chris ShawFeatured Review
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Added on February 8, 2019Last Updated on February 8, 2019 AuthorChris ShawBerkshire, United KingdomAboutAlbert, my paternal grandfather introduced me to Tennyson when I was nine. I have loved poetry ever since but did not attempt writing a single piece until I was 40. It's never too late to try somethin.. more..Writing
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