Portrait of my Mother

here she is, playing tennis
powerful serves slice the air
the leap across the court to save
the forceful twack of backhand grace
her skin aglow with summers sun
dancing on the well kept lawns
her dark eyes, dark hair, her pixie face
lit with pleasure in the moment,
of care or trouble, not a trace,
her family are around her, close,

the world’s too fast
now her face is lined with care
her family history written there
years have passed, flesh has failed
long lost father, mother, aunts and uncles
her lover was the last to go
they surround her now in dreams
they gather to her in the night
her only pleasure is a book
with writing big enough to read
back lit by the Kindle light

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