Mother

Softer now,

out in her garden or

baking apple-tart for a grandchild.

Gone the steely prow that sliced back from Hollyhead,

defying the fifties flow

to start from scratch

outside a half-hearted western town,

then years of menial jobs,

cycling home, headbent against spiteful rain,

pride and anger grinding the pedals around,

uphill, always uphill.