moving images
out of the swirling mists of time
images flit like scenes on a movie screen.
her dark hair in short cut, smooth and sleek,
lying coyly against perfect curve of cheek.
next image of child with chopped-off bangs
standing forlornly in kitchen doorway,
little striped cotton pants fall low,
eyes peer cautiously into lamplight’s glow.
through fog i see her glance at me:
mother’s gaze, so full of certainty.
daughter will survive harsh world,
grow into a brave, steady girl.
how wrong she was, this mother mine
lost now to cruel winds of time
for tumult wrecked the childhood lost
onto rocky shore fair dream was tossed.
i awaken to alarm clock’s clang
begin another drudgey day to slog,
put memory away till later time
when night’s embrace again lets film unwind.
by S.T. Martin c. 2012
