A Mother´s Day

Teachers Appreciation Week (2)


For my eldest son on Mothers Day:

Baby boy can I hold you?
Can I help you as you cry?
Come lay your head beside me
And place your hand in mine.

Baby boy can I touch you?
Can you come here and sit?
Before you run away from me
Please stay with me a bit.

Baby boy you are no longer
You now stand up so tall
Your features have changed so much
You don’t reach for me when you fall.

My boy you are a man now
So sure of yourself and grown
You’ve found a place in the world
And made that spot your own.

Sometimes I stare at your face
Search it for the boy i knew
I once kissed those tears and held you tight
– the child i gave everything to.

My son, my hands are withered
My face has found its lines
But still I remember clearly
That moment you first opened your eyes.

One day you will understand
Why I am the way I am
One day you’ll watch me close my eyes
And it will be you holding my hand.

Until then please humour me
While I write poems and kiss your cheeks
I am your mummy always
while time it slowly creeps.

Santiago Poems

Anatomy of Santiago

What is a city?

Santiago has a heartbeat

It beats beneath our feet

It thuds from the hill of Renca

To the tops of La Reina.

It pumps a stream of cars

Through arteries of tar

Clogged are the paths around

With road, train or bus.

The dogs know the city best

Sentinels through unrest

And calm; they weather each storm

Both happy and forlorn.

The labourers are the hands

That toil upon the land

At dawn the market calls

Moving until nightfall.

Offices are ears to the call

Of the markets: it’s rise and fall

Always busy, never done

Stresslines visible by midday sun.

The trees deeply breathe

Soaking up with their leaves

A mouthpiece that speaks warnings

The bark hides its calling.

The mountains are the soul

The city but a bowl

A cup for them to drink

Until the sun sinks

They’ll still be silent there

Stretching thin and all laid back

Until The city is a body that is no more

And another rises up from the floor.

Would I?

If mountains spoke to me

Would I understand them?

They’ve stood at depths below the sea and looked above beyond me.

If a bird spoke to me

What would I say?

I’ve never soared upon the wind nor seen the dawn begin.

If sand spoke to me

Would I comprehend?

I’ll never age so gracefully nor share space so peacefully.

If you spoke to me

Would I want to listen?

Though we share the same lifestart we walk a path apart.

Chile: A Poem

In Chile there are condors, cold waters on the shores

There are vines reaching wide and tales of ominous folklore.

There are rocks that don’t know rain beneath a canopy of stars

that shine from one corner to another, 2653 miles apart.

Volcanoes gaze over lakes, themselves watched by a mountain range

that stretches like wispy hair across a map tainted with bloodstains.

How lush is Chile’s country! It’s bursting from the seams

with melons the size of children, and daily bread, eggs and cream.


Santiago is a bloated whale beached in the sea between,

the spawn of Chinese Whispers and born of its many dreams.

The mountains bleeding snow, watching from the start

above people erecting fences, just barbed-wire tips apart.