A Letter to Alice



I was thinking about your Russian dolls.
I have a photograph. You’re three
and sitting with that enviable poise
small children find so effortless—
straight-backed, cross-legged,
hands resting on your knees. You’re smiling,
and your head is tilted slightly, like an owl.
Six dolls stand beside you, ranked by size.
They could be us. Our mother tribe.



Here’s Katherine Ellen, mother of seven,
born in Whitechapel in 1864, her Mona Lisa face
unlined, despite the war.

Here’s Lilian-Maud, with grey and mournful eyes,
who told me laughter ends in tears
and couldn’t bear to name
‘the little boy who died’.

And here’s Patricia May,
who mothered me, and five besides,
who looked for rainbows in the rain
and had the mystic’s gift for feeling gratitude
and bliss while we and all the world
spun wild around her.

What would they say if they could
speak today? We’ll never know.
The story of each life’s a mystery,
like that last doll you never could unpack,
however much you tugged at it.

And last of all, here’s Kitty, you and me,
heirs to their quiet dynasty.

You are a poet, and this gives me hope.
For even if our words can’t end a war
or help a child or animal in pain, they can
call out the lies of wicked men, and magnify
the wonders in this world that still remain.

O matryoshkas
with your blossomy cheeks
and your butterfly mascara eyes,
loosen your veils and your rosebud lips
and help us sing brave songs.
May we sing with the mother voices
silenced for too long.
May we respect all beings, and ourselves.
May we be wise.
May we be strong.

Grannie
July 2024









If you have any thoughts about this poem (or the photographs), Annie Fisher would be pleased to hear them