Who hung the fish on the trees, asks my mother
as we both look through the kitchen window
and I wonder too, perhaps they are waiting for the right season
to unhook themselves and swim into their own depths
she thinks passing fishermen may have left them there
but the sea is far
and the river fields away.
I tell her that she is seeing through her third eye
and her eyes old as bark smile back.
In the left over moments of breakfast
we pause in the elsewhere
still, like the hanging fish
before the day draws us
further into ourselves.
I rarely explain my poetry. I just let the words go… However, I want to explain the context of this poem. My mum was in a Rehabilitation Home when Covid came. She needed 24 hour care. I took her out of the home and she spent five months at home. She died in July… she gently swan into still waters…