I want to throw myself off a cliff
When I hear my mother's voice
Like a soft death
A dog death
That she comforts and hides in
Whispering tender nice things

Her voice is fur
It is soft and wriggly like a dormouse
Capable of entering every nick and cranny
Making a space it's own
Pummelling my senses  
It opens myself up to prickly situations

Sad times
Despite this blanket of sound
It attempts to heal our wounds
Cradling in a wrap around scarf of energy
And lifting her head up into your lap
You, quietly sing her to sleep
The last thing she will feel,
That voice, as described is a warm cloud
Bursting with despair
Gushing over into our home
Still, it is a kind of drowning.