Poem on Sunday: Two Ms in Mammy

Helen Cook

A valleys boy I am from the village whose

houses packed tight against the

lowering tips. Livid as the

wings of the Devil they were.

My uncle’s house did smell of the coal

in cobbled yard, bunker, parlour, scuttle,                                                              

a shovelful glowing in the grate 

of the back room that’s no longer there;

all his street crushed, Uncle Dai too

sleeping off the night shift.

 Me-

I crouched at my desk dinner money in hand,

Meggie’s dead head on my shoulder.

If you’ve not had much time for a life

are there any famous last words?

Is it two ms in mammy?

were hers, as swiftly the

spewed- out mountain filled her mouth.

She cwtched up nice and close.

In my grown-up dreams I tell her I’m sorry

I hated you then. Wanted you gone.

Memories seamed in many a coal

black night slipping like

slurry to overwhelm,

I answer her now: Two ms in mammy.

Desperate that she never knew.

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