Page 36 (1/2)

Well, I says, you ain’t wrong

The mill’s in a dip of a valley, on the shouty little river called the Don The old heel creaks its way around, like a crone with a bone coreenly damp an ancient The millstone rumbles inside A white cloud of flour billows froes of feet have worn ’eht to the rope handrail I follow behind an glance at the river below It’s so clear I can see the stones of its bed They glea strands of weed strearab the rail Lean over to look There In the water Lyin on the riverbed

The current co wild hair

My mother

In the water

Dead

She lies, whitely dead, in her bed of pale stones

Eyes closed

A smile on her lips

Like she froze while she dreamed of roses

An I lie with her

Me

I’m there

Cradled in her arms,

asleep

Flushed with life,

a smile on my lips,

clasped in my dead mother’s arms

I rear back My breath chokes in h the door Wavin in C’asp, I look agin Pale round stones pave the waterfloor Weed strands wave an weave She’s gone I’one, never there

Are you okay? he says