It was only a few short summers between my mother asking,

‘how I was’ and her asking ‘who I was’.

It was only the briefest of moments between telling a friend,

‘See you soon’ and bowing my head in a farewell.

It seems only days between being a child and looking after one,

Between laughing and shouting, ‘I’m old’ and being old.

Surely the moon has only passed a few times since saying

‘tomorrow, I’m going to..’ and ‘yesterday, I meant to….’

It has only been a few short, warm  wind, summers  since my mother asked me

how I was.

 

bobby stevenson 2017

 

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