There's no silk in my Mother's Hair,
We don't listen gently from glistening fibres,
Protruding from the tips of the corn husk.
We do not turn the tap to trickle.
We let it pour
A deluge through our veins.
Inside the concertina is dark,
But she bellows, and she cries
Not anywhere as much as she laughs.
Too much,
Too much space she takes.
Reign in her kite strings and curse as she tumbles
Why don't you?
Have your silence.
Until you are reminded how noisy it is down there
Away from the flight of the cordless moon
Where the clouds are tickled
And the raindrops kissed.
