All this last week I have been thinking
of my mother, thinking of her taking
up in her arms the creaking basket
of clothes, without pausing, up to the attic.
Oh, I was full of myself in those days –
shouting and stamping, crying to her to leave
her washing to others, to take me in place
of the basket, play with me under the eaves –
But calmly she went on, lifting out the clothes,
hanging them to dry, she had no time to scold
or even to glance at me, and soon the line
was flying in the wind, white and clean.
I cannot shout now – how could she hear?
I see her, great, vast, yet somehow she is near.
The wet sky shines washed with her blue,
her grey hair streams where the clouds scud through.
About this poem
This poem, representing Hungary, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.