By Finuala McNally

This letter that I read tonight is write the whole world over

It always starts with the same first line

My dearest darling daughter.

She wasn't eight or even ten

She didn't even bloom

in fact this daughter never lived outside her mother's womb.

Yet this letter it is written same date, same time each year,

with dignity and passion, each line is crystal clear.

"Sweet Peas I think you'd like this year,"

They’re colourful and bright

the way that I imagine you when I close my eyes each night.

This letter can go on for days, and even into nights,

until another phase comes by and moves it out of sight.

The letter it is never signed or never will be read,

because that letter that I read about

remains inside that mothers head.