The Washer of the Ford

By Arlene Ang

Mother, that's how he called me,
wistful voice wading across the ford.

Blood slithered around my hands
like water serpents unleashed

from the cage of his clothes.
He must have meant it,

for I saw him raise his hand to wave,
a nightwalker caged in dreams.

That was when this strange lightning
of anguish ripped through me,

through the vestments in my hands.
My son, my son, my son...

A wail slashed the moor raw; it was mine.