‘I don’t want to die
without you knowing who I am’.
That’s what you once said to me, Mum.
Parents are a puzzle to be handed on.
‘I won’t always have you, I haven’t got you now’,
I think to look at my daughter and son.
They’ll come to sing this self-same song:
Parents are a puzzle to be handed on.
Like old boardgames
with some piece gone – Scrabble, Cluedo,
Monopoly, Mahjong –
Parents are a puzzle to be handed on.
I know a part of the song you sung,
but will never cease trying to learn that song,
a madrigal roundelay, long and long
my children will riddle at when I’m gone
some spilling mystery that refills as it runs,
sings ‘bless all our sweet sun-buttered skulls..
Parents are a puzzle to be handed on
Parents are a puzzle to be handed on’.
