My mother was called Cliff, strange I know.
Strange, but stranger still, she was licked to death by a dog,
the size of a small seaside bungalow,
surrounded by well tended blackberry bushes.
“Two birds in the hand”, she used to say.
“Two in the hand” and sometimes,
on lonely days,
when pine needles drop,
I swear I can see her face in passing clouds.