For my mum

December comes again,
and the air is thinner where you stood.I still catch your talcum powder
on an old jumper I can’t let go,
still hear your needles clicking
like a quiet heartbeat.You left at winter’s start,
when the light is kind,
and ever since this month
carries a tender bruise.Sometimes I talk to you
while the kettle boils,
tell you I’m all right,
still carrying your silence inside me.The years haven’t made you smaller—
only the space you filled
larger in its emptiness.Sleep gently, Mum.
I’m still your son,
walking every winter
with your hand warm in mine.
Paolo Driussi