My Mothers Cloak

As an infant

I felt guarded

Cloaked

in my mothers cloak

It must have looked funny

Big black eyes

Emerging from its folds

As if that was all there was

to me

I remember

Its rare threads

Amazing and booish

Their lightness

repudiate their clout

Its tivaevae-like Switchs

of slim fabric

An active shield

against sour winters

The colours loud

Yelling for mind

and space

My mother always wore

that Cloak with delight

Undaunted

by its Brightness effect

outlining her out

in a Papaa circle

But combining  beautifully

at every Market

I remember too

With childlike disdain

Discarding my mothers Cloak

Not for me

The no cool designs

extravagant colouring

and awkward fit

She wears it still

Her brooch of pride

sparkling and bright

And not long ago

I tried it on

after many years

Although its not really me

Its because of her

I can sew

on my own