Your Mother's Daughter 12.08.2011.

Your black Kompressor Estate
swirled into the car park,
scudded gravel that spat out
from beneath tyres.
You sprang out of a beaded seat,
clipped the door shut,
hived off any nonsense,
made the point.

The wisp of split-blonde
shoulder-length hair
echoed your passenger's
grey, shoulder-cut hair,
yet you were altogether different.
You pulled forward a black cardigan,
smoothed it down
over troubles.

Sliding round to the car boot
(whose bumper sticker
announced a common
passion for Dobermanns)
you made it fly open;
made another point.

Finally, you rounded the
flank of the black car,
yanked open the
stubborn passenger door
(since your youthfulness seemed eternal)
prised out your wavering,
bewilderd mother, handcuffed her
to your arm, marched her
slowly after a minute of her arising
(which seemed to you an eternity)
willed her along the flagstones
like a category A prisoner.

Sighing below herself
your mother went along with it,
wishing for some kind of reaccord,
forgiveness always on her lovely lips.
You jabbered at her, gabbled out the words,
disquieted, not liking how you were,
you wished away the minutes,
the hours, the ties
that screamed the quiet truth
(even in your Singapore home)
that you were still
your mother's daughter.

From behind, you were two persons
connected by some length
of life that tarried behind you,
seethed around you.
From behind, you were still
your mother's daughter
and she was still
your mother.