James Darke, 1 September 1983
I thought I saw my mother. There were snaps Of someone else’s children in her hand. A picture that affected me. But then I’d never been to see her very much.
Mother of my dreams, who knew the hand she held. Tracked to her dingy room in some frail place, Flat out in bed. And yet it was as if I had to break the door down to get in.