The Hollow Climbing Tree

I remember when my mother died

and I, an honest Catholic, cried

and, running barefoot along the path

that followed the canal , her laugh

was something that called out to me

though blind with impotent rage I see

with benefit of age, the memory

that haunts me still is of the tree

where I played as a child safe from harm

to come home at night to loving arms

that I could never touch again.

My tears hidden in the rain.