Jenny Hamlett
Inside the Snow Bubble
These drives home after dark on dipped lights
cloak life. Rain on the tin bonnet,
rain battening on the black windscreen,
the slow drag of wheels through flood
in nights thick as tar - comfort me.
One night rain became snow, a whirl-storm
coming at me as I twisted the wheel of the car.
I wanted to go on cornering into those endless spirals.
She asked only for her grandson’s photo.
“There’ll be one in May,” I said
but her face was grey as soiled snow,
the mush that’s left when car after car has plundered it.
There is no ahead. A hospice, no returning.
We both prefer the inside of a children’s snowstorm.
My mother’s cheeks are hollows I can put my fist in and she
puts all her worrying into my journey home.
Page(s) 36
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