For my late mother


Mother swears by nails.
She has no time for screws
Or fancy fasteners.
One knock with her hammer,
Her only tool, and they're in.
'No messing', she says.
Tacks hold up calendars.
Bigger nails help pictures
Defy gravity.
Round-headed ones,
Her most elegant,
Keep up the net curtains.
Nails protrude like the
Eyes of moles, blind to progress.
A good nail hoists a crude cross
Above the telephone table.
It looks like a wayside shrine.
I am certain as a nail that
She prays there.

Chris Fernie, 2009

Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 370 times
Written on 2009-06-07 at 21:16

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