we didn’t have much, but my mother

carried an invisible bag around her strong neck

went out searching for food and found
tidbits of affection, small sovereigns of love

she wandered all day while we were at school

would gather the warmest words, the softest touches
her bowerbird eyes found plenty; a scarf left at the bus stop

feathers, a two cent piece, lost keys

one special stone for your pocket
she collected and felt prepared – a sort of parenting kit

afternoon, they grew heavy in her pouch and she wandered home

at times only just arriving as we did
I don’t know if comforts came naturally to her

but she always had a stash of warm things

memories she had collected
a riddle overheard, cats whose chins she’d scratched

a whiff of chocolate on a walk past the posh shops

if we were hungry she’d bring us a mug of hot water
whenever unsure how to respond

Mum reached into the bag to feed us, in tender murmurs

the tiny stories of experience
we waited, beaks open

for the next wriggling warm thing

we could swallow to feel full
always able to kindle comfort

she’d sing a lullaby out of tune

recite a poem Grandma knew by heart
transformed from birds back into children

water-bottle warm, she’d kiss us on the head

we’d fall asleep smiling
as I grew older there were times I wanted to put my hand in the bag

but she was trying to help me grow up

it was time to weave my own	
one day Mum put her bag down

we found it by the laundry door, full of odds & ends

– junk without her stories
the hands that no longer collect are stained

with maps to past adventures

now, deep in a maze of corridors, Mum, frail

waits for me to bring pieces of colour to her shrinking world.