What will I write to her this year?
About the childhood I remember?
Wait for the poem to appear
in local papers in December?
'If you still have a mother, Sir..',
then I could add some 'thorny roses',
a 'tiny bug that smiles for her',
'a boy, in Lederhosen poses? '
Yes, memories are never far,
they do not ever fade or die,
something has left a tiny scar
and, like a hiccup, comes a sigh.
A rosebush stands, with patience, waiting
for life to take itself in stride,
as petals grow to honour mating
and thorns are always by her side.
Now, as she bears the signs of age
her hand still rests upon your heart,
the eve of life, that final stage,
it's more a science than an art.
A thread, made strong from hemp, does grow
from childhood to advancing years.
It binds together (you may know)
you and your mother - love and tears.
The cub is slain by human greed,
its mother grieves in sheer despair.
The fur fulfills a selfish need,
about the mother, they don't care.
A child, still young and full of steam
falls ill and dies, a message comes
to tell her all inside a dream
she wakes, and, nervously, she hums.
A mother, let me tell you, friend,
will carry burdens, sure to break
the strongest man and to the end
she will be there when you awake.