PREAMBLE:

I rarely write traditional rhyming poetry, but here is a rare one. Written shortly after 1994 when my mother passed on. I post it as many people like that sort of thing. (Slightly cringes). I try to please - sometimes. Truth is, an unknown whisper told me to post it.

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Four Ages of a Mother

When all that is left is memories,
we re-live those days long since passed.
Rosey glow of a ‘then’ melts into a ‘now,’
the trick – to make it all last.

I remember the seams in her nylons,
cranking the handle... washing... wet smell.
Always putting on baby’s bonnet in sunshine,
ensuring her infant was well.

And them time fleeting onward passing,
pram, dummies, and rings were all lost.
I was a grown man with children,
mortgage, wife, and spiralling costs!

I was always outing squalor,
laying bricks, making a den.
She was always there with her pinny,
ready with cheque book and pen.

And then time fleeting onward passing,
our worlds drifted apart, maybe broke:
A death, broken marriage and heartache.
Perhaps just struggling to cope.

Always busy at work, or travelling around.
Massive garden to tend on her own.
Grandchildren demanding her attention,
not long before they’re all grown.

And then time fleeting onward passing,
her energies subsided and went.
A message came down from the heavens,
advising that her days were now spent.

It transpired that they wanted her quickly,
as her work down here was all done.
A new age for her was just dawning,
her new home was ready, well won.

***

c. Wackford, 2016