the golden egg

surrounded by the walls of a golden ceramic egg,
the light inside cannot penetrate the dark that surrounds it.
its form immaculately split in two, it is closing,
unstoppable inevitable separation from all and everyone i love,
never again to see anything.
never closed but forever closing. unbearable. that morning i dream of
my mother,
caring, tolerant, and self sufficient.
in the dream her guard has been left aside.

a rickety bridge spans low and thin across bayou like water,
green, swamped with algae,
we talk, about what i cant remember,
she walks away as if in a foot note to the main dream,
carrying a catherine cookson novel.

glancing over my right shoulder
in time to see her stamp through the knee high water;
it looks and moves like green quick sand.

she has decided to do this
she has assessed the bridge as to damp and slippery,
the water was the safer bet,
especially as she wore her wood and cork clogs,
the ones she loved. she sported a triangle of beige shorts
and an old turquoise t-shirt i had seen from photos
from around the time i was born.

her perm was back.
warm, damp light flooded this scene,
a little too calm.