You walked beside me
some forty years or more,
my right-hand woman,
leaving footprints on the pavements,
in the sand, in my home.

You saw my babies born,
and die, watched them grow,
and tended their children too,
with a firm and loving hand.
Until this year.

You had an inner battle
of burning pain, blood and tumour,
your body’s rebellion.
A fighter for others, for justice,
now it was your turn to fight for yourself.

Wrenched from loving grandparents,
from milking cows under warm Jamaican sunshine,
you came to our country in ’63
to the chill grey skies of Wandsworth
in December.

Dressed only in satin Sunday best
of short puffed sleeves, sash bow and white socks,
you hid at the airport trying to escape your fate.
But it’s hard to hide when you’re 13 1/2
and a BOAC plane is waiting.

Your father heeded the call of sea and star,
the long horizon, young ship, wide road, vast sky.
England drew him.  Man’s journey for adventure lay ahead
in London’s dark streets, to be met by
cold welcome, “no dogs, no Irish, no blacks”.

Trapped with parents you no longer recognised,
you missed rich red earth, sun and animals,
an outsider at school, alone among the white girls.
Your headmistress,Margaret Miles,
became an anchor in your loss.

“Word is wind but blow is unkind,” she reasoned,
helping you withstand the taunts,
showing you how to shrug off violence, choose your response.
And you created your life, your daughter, grandson,
a stable loving home, joined the Soroptimists,
fought for women’s rights, frequented the House of Lords.

You embellished family parties
in bright yellow hot pants, lame, exotic hats,
danced all night to a Caribbean band,
dragged hungover teenagers out of bed next morning.
My Mum loved you as my boys do now.

You were the Herbalife Queen with Olympic torch,
born in the Year of the Tiger, like me.
Jamaican you were and always would be, you told me.
We got older together, you and I, hiding our grey hair,
still rocking like it was 1969.