by Jill Husser
She hid her thoughts in the broom
and swept all day –
or that’s how it seemed
to the only child
I was then.
It took a while to stop resenting
the chores that joined me
to her drudgery
until the day
the calm plough of my brush
took me back
to the sea-drift greens and blues
in the yoke
of her Fair Isle jumper
to the soft scent of her cotton hands.
And even if it’s true
she didn’t know
how to take the time –
houseproud
as she was brought up to be –
let me stay a moment now
in this pose, with you.
Jill Husser grew up in Scotland and has lived in France for over thirty years. Her work has been published in Poetry Scotland, Dreich Magazine, Stoat Poetry, The Alchemy Spoon, Amethyst and Causeway/Cabhsair.
