[43] Scarf, Byron Beynon

Head-scarfed my mother walks
from the house and into memory.
She has taken
her resilient purse
with a purpose
into the polished
breeze of the day’s falling.
I have this view of her
through our window
remembering
then leaving by the gate
to catch the corner shop
before it closed.
Soon she’d return
to shut the resolute door,
letting the lonely lock do its work.
The casual table would be laid,
without knowing why
we were contented with a day
full of silent motions and those
neighbors faintly heard.