Found myself glancing at a woman I vaguely recognised in Rottingdean eating cream scones in the Open Art Cafe the other day. She was with a companion so I did not disturb her but when she went to pay I popped over and said ‘Hi I think I know you, 
were you the tutor at a poetry day workshop at Evolution a few years ago?’ She said ‘Yes, and I remember you too’ and we smiled and hugged. I didn’t distract her further but as I walked along the road I remembered her poetry workshop more clearly, her knowledge, experience and her gentle acceptance of everyone’s efforts that had put us all at ease.
Strangely I bumped into her again at the greengrocers and as we queued to pay for our fruit and veg. I had the opportunity to talk briefly again telling her that her workshop had been a turning point for me, writing a particular poem had broken a cycle of grief and I would always be grateful. Maybe she was just being polite but she appeared pleased and said she must think about doing some more workshops and we went our separate ways.
Later I found myself remembering the room, my fellow students and some of the images that had come to mind. It was when I got home that I realised that the poem was still in a file and although I know I have moved on, this poem just won’t go away.
I wonder if someone up there may be trying to tell me something – like a special mention as we move towards Mother’s Day?
Green Fingers
I light the candle
on my mother’s allotment
on the day of her funeral
and imagine her spirit
wander
to where we’d pick
the first raspberries
bend the boughs of the damson tree
pluck the fat black fruit
plant the strawberry runners
pile manure around
roots of rhubarb
and sit on this bench
sipping tea
Ann Perrin 