Motherland

Motherland
 
I stare into Ovaltine,
on my own bar the whir of the fridge,
a hand painted clock  
and something, perhaps it's the boiler
rumbling about as if a cantankerous whale.
She's there too, the bleak reflection
beyond a cluttered table,  
a cluttered tea trolley  
and the sink,
sits crumpled in the beat down light  
extended above the affray.
I don't even know if affray is the right word,
or whether chaos would be better,
mess would be simple enough,
between all of that. --
It mirrors the mind,
I can hear the timer claiming her hours,
watch the day turn from night to day again,
try to muster the strength to enjoy them,
knowing they're numbered,
knowing we'll travel six hours
to where no one knows my heart like she does,
like the flats and the fields and the dogs do.
I'll pretend the sky isn't pinker here,
that the poppy isn't a more violent shade  
simply for the wheat,
I'll pretend my heart isn't tethered here
like an elastic band my life elsewhere  
feels just a stretch, an extension from here
waiting for the day she can retract.
The hours shift,
I stare into Ovaltine,
tuck myself up,
try to tuck all the fatty essence  
of my homeland
back inside myself to freeze there --
what it is to have a Mother
that isn't actually a Mother at all.