She scrubbed at floors (my mother's), pushed her straggling hair,
Shuffled her rough knees, intent on mud,
Rubbed, at each worn brick. I would never be
Like her - no, not poor, but so intent
She forgot the knobbled body.
Can worlds of roots, high world of air
Touch this life? Now I raise, trembling,
The brown, brimmed bowl. She was almost there.
If you've any comments about this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.