My mother travelled the world
on her Parker 51. Spain, Africa,
stopping points in a life lived by correspondence.
Birthdays, Christmas, every week
that round full hand in thick black strokes
telegramming her identity:
the rich cream envelope,
the address squeezing out of its small space
trying to escape, invade the stamp.
She filled the pen with special ink,
rumoured to ruin cheaper pens,
squeezed the barrel with childish glee,
watched the bubbles, wiped twice
on white blotting paper,
smiled with satisfaction.
Her letters were adventures, wild tales,
jungle expeditions, safaris, elephants,
rhinos and snakes.
And underneath, a hankering for
the grandchildren she was missing:
their first steps, school days, relayed
in pale blue airmails.
Keep writing 