Wednesday, 2 October 2013


Par Avion

Air-speeded letters sing the light of home.
Lyrical with distance, the blue and red
flecked envelopes become a mother.
Home so far away it turns into myth.
Memory lapses into dream and dreams
are forgotten. The only reality is ink.
Your mother’s handwriting - neat and clean
on blue paper - soon spidered with age.
Her hands tremoring, years passing
like the planes tearing overhead as letters
exchanged over the arc of earth between
a woman and her son, Par Avion.
Faces, half-recalled, revived by pen:
sisters getting married, fathers always busy,
babies getting born, you missing.
Homesickness is an open wound
you may have thrown the letters away, but
I saw the blood through your shirt.
It spoke with a red mouth.
poem by Maria Taylor, copyright 2013.
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