My mother died when I was 4 days old, this is a reflective poem about the mother I never knew.

---

The bedroom door that never opened wide,

The phantom hand that didn’t smooth the sheet,

A silence where a heartbeat should reside,

A journey that was never made complete.

I wonder if your touch was soft as rain,

Or if your voice held echoes of the sea,

If you would know the contours of my pain,

And anchor all the parts that drift in me.

Perhaps you would have leaned into the light

To memorise the shadow of my face,

To chase away the terrors of the night

And fold me in an unconditioned grace.

You could have been the mirror for my soul,

The witness to the chapters yet unread,

The steady hand that helped to keep me whole,

The quiet wisdom whispered by my bed.

But memory is a garden filled with mist,

A tapestry I weave from what is gone,

Imagining my forehead that you kissed,

The gentle guiding presence of the dawn.

I do not know the depth of what I missed,

If love was there, but veiled by circumstance,

Or if I simply mourn the quietest tryst

With life, denied by fate’s indifferent chance.

Still, in the hollow where your ghost should be,

I plant a seed of what might have been true:

A version of the self that’s finally free,

Because it learned to love itself through you.

---

Image generation by Copilot, ChatGPT or WordPress Ai.

Please subscribe. Let’s support each other.
© Richard J Kirk  – 2026.

If you want to know more, see: About Me…

If you like what you read, treat me to a coffee.

Check on Amazon UK or Amazon USA for all publications

Thank you.