It's lunchtime in the nursing home.
"Not enough salt",you say.
"They never put enough salt on."
Suspended in twilight,neither dead nor alive,
frozen in a time that isn't mine.
"You're not my daughter",you say.
We sit on the promenade watching giant ships.
"My father works on the Mersey",you say.
"...skipper of a survey launch,out in all weathers.
You're not my daughter."
You slip a tiny hand in mine,
like a small child about to cross the road.
I am your mother for now.
Yet I'll always be
who you say I'm not.