The Mother Poem by Jessica Newby

Burning the laundry to a crisp,
Sets her off around the room;
like angry waves battering the helpless
cliffs she comes into contact with.

She comes and goes as she pleases,
Creating her time and marking her own path.
When the storm is at its peak,
you have no hope, but to try and shelter as the waves rise.

Not all the time, is the sea rough.
She can be completely relaxed
and her soothing presence washes away many wounds
and bruises cause by the jagged edges of the day.

After one of her long walks,
She comes back, reeking
of the sea and outdoors.
The salty, mixed with the floral, sets me sneezing.

Her crazy, scarlet main whips around
without even a breeze to coax it;
Just as the white horses crash,
onto the beach, without even the whip of the wind to anger them.

When she turns her music to a familiar tune,
She rejoices in the sound, dancing around the kitchen.
She sings along with the well-known song,
and all that can be heard is her wailing song,
and the stomp of her dancing feet.

Now, I trace the path made by her sea;
I walk the cliffs and stare down at the marks she left there.
I recall pick-nicks and cycle rides here.
Good memories wash over me, but now the tide forever stands silent and still.