I cast the first stone (poem for my mum)

These days…

The babies are cynical,

Rolling their eyes as we hit the pinnacle.

The rats are fearless in their leathers,

Cold-calling from the cellar.

I think of you often – sometimes.

And sometimes can be a long time.

The World is a hologram of a messy mind.

But not mine – I swear.

I’ll clean up…

Tomorrow.

And tomorrow has to come, one day.

They were our first figureheads,

Lashed to fragile egos.

Our mothers.

Wodja call ‘er?

I hurled a stone at the barbarian’s head.

But my story would not be told in any Holy Book.

But rather to the Head Mistress,

Whose sigh was like a dragon’s roar,

For a boy of only four-foot four

I threw the first stone – yes, that’s true.

But mother,

I did it all for you!