Poetry by Terry O’Shaughnessy
I miss my mother on summer nights,
her silhouette crossing the dark garden,
moving with the heavy watering can to
soak the pots of blue salvia
and pink daisies
and all the stars of Bethlehem,
floating white
in the twilight.
No food, only flowers here,
her labouring shoulders inside shirt and vest
cold, even on warm nights like this,
even as she lifts the cool water,
the woods behind her hidden
in the vacuum of night
where the green darkness
smells of light.
When I think I once lay
within this silhouette,
and this moving shadow that
gave birth to me, I think:
only the two of us, here.
in the dark garden, not knowing yet
there will only be the two of us
at the end—
then, will I hold her shoulders,
that moving silhouette,
and try to let her go
when she leaves me in winter
and when later,
I will miss her most
on dark summer nights.
Terry O’Shaughnessy is a former journalist, editor and recovering advertising copywriter. Kayaking and looking for owls in the wild are current pursuits along with traveling and tending a large herb garden in the summer months.
