passing clouds

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 can see her face in passing clouds.

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