When There Was Morning Light
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Across the darkened mushrooms, almost crisp, loving words and thoughts were shone. Halcyon days that are lost in the mist of time – words breathed into a thick air. A touch – reached across the table of life – just moving the quiff on a schoolboy’s brow. Her hand an eiderdown of love and care. Lips imparting secrets there. Lost, now. The smell of smoke on a light Summer’s day drifting in and out of rooms. The scales of life adjusted by her existence, balancing the bad with good, she brought – with her smouldering tea-towel – laughter into my mother’s dour front room. Her smile a marshmallow of fun and play. Sunshine in every day – with her. The thud of fear in my trembling belly. One or two words too many …. A child, barely grown into early teenage years, prematurely speaks with men, and puts – with quite some unassuming ease – a foot firmly between his pair of lips. Her pain a needle ever in my mind. Sorrow at last defined – but way … … too late. © Allen Ansell 2005, 2023
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