Son And Heir

She whispered in my ear of neon lights,
my mother, life long actress,
waning star in sick bay,
zany bird nest hairstyle on display,
lock and tress erect,
skin-fold ripple eggshell pallor,
mothball end play flutter from the wings.
The voice that once enthralled a thousand
hearts with oral feats and seismic tone-shifts,
like someone trying to catch a friend’s
attention on an outbound train,
now tragic downturn ache.
Apple walnut salad only deli window fodder in her eyes,
Dijon mustard sachet cast aside
as if unwanted email spam,
get well cards cut paper dragon trails.
Nightingales of tender years and warmth
who nurse in rosters,
slowly spread those deathly forms
right underneath an icon’s split chin rash.
Whiff of starchy clerk and file procedure
hovers over gridlock wards,
private health insurance and the albatross
of waiver in that very human passing out parade.
Yet here I am, son and heir, entr’acte  curator of maternal legend skyward bound,
tummy rumble moment in the build up
to departure
where one walks on stage hoping  not to freeze.
The one true screen test all
must face dear mum would say,
before our sip from life’s rich cup
becomes a stain upon the twilight bow of curtains

First place medal winner on Poetry Soup 7 th March 2020