I haven't written poetry since I was about 16 (so self-conscious and derivative, it hurt) but a year or so back, I wrote a version of this poem about my mum and me for a Mother's Day readers' letters special in The Guardian Family section.
It wasn't selected.
I was clearing out my files tonight and I re-read it - and started cutting and cutting, til it was a different poem altogether.
My mum died in July this year
IN MARKS & SPENCER
You hold my hand in Marks & Spencer
Heading for the winter coats
You buy me the long blue one
I hate it because it’s scratchy
‘The hems’s coming down,’ you say, when we get home
So you write to Sir Marcus Sieff
It’s what you do when things are not right
I hold your hand in Marks & Spencer
I steer you past the mens’ boxers
We’re heading for the cafe. Cappuccino for you. Americano for me
You point to an egg and cress sandwich
‘Wipe your mouth mum,’ I say later and
You look at me
It’s what you do when things are not right