I am sixteen; I've never tasted a Bloody Mary.
‘Tell your father to bring a luxury,' says she.
‘Grapes have no imagination, they're just green.
Tell him: stop the neighbours coming.'
I clear her cupboard in Ward 10B, Stobhill Hospital.
I leave, bags full, Lucozade, grapes, oranges,
sad chrysanthemums under my arms,
weighted down. I turn round, wave with her flowers.
My mother, on her high hospital bed, waves back.
Her face is light and radiant, dandelion hours.
Her sheets billow and whirl. She is beautiful.
Next to her the empty table is divine.
I carry the orange nostalgia home singing an old song.
The last line is ambiguous and open to interpretation. Is the ‘old song’ something she recalls her mother singing to her, like the Lucozade that she carries home, belonging to the past? Removing it could be exactly what her mother needed to make her well. 
 We can ask if the poet Is happy that her mother is well, or if she is relieved that her mother is at peace and died while still humorous and feisty. It is for the reader to decide.
Lucozade