A MOTHERS STORY
Posted: Sat Aug 06, 2011 9:35 am
A MOTHERS STORY
When you sleep till the crack of dawn through long hot summer nights so warm,
behind the scenes quite unobserved nature is waking – every bird
begins to sing its morning song, the fields are wet, and night long gone.
Seen through a mist that’s fast dispersing are cattle, and young calves are nursing
closely at their mothers side, as sunlight dapples golden hides.
There’s much frantic activity upon the duck pond. You might see
wild mallard ducks, bright green heads gleaming, busy with their morning preening.
Their wives all dressed in sombre brown; feed busily – bums up, heads down
beneath churned waters, muddy gray – in primitive Jurassic way.
But you heedless of day ahead, sleep tight – you’re such a slug-a-bed
and down the darkest road you creep still cradled in the arms of sleep.
Sleep will eventually give way to the demands of Saturday
and you will rise with angry eyes and thumping head, ‘twas most unwise
to stay out till the wee small hours- and then return through night-time showers
on roads now slippery and slick – where big roos bounded fast and quick
along the verges, seeking feed. You hit one – someone dies and bleeds.
But you are young and fear no harm – you think you hold a magic charm.
It’s only as you age and grow, become a mother that you know
the dangers that lurk everywhere and though this knowledge has been shared
you disregard the sound advice, you think you’ll never pay the price.
So sink or swim you’re on your own. No longer child, but fully grown.
But I am still the mother who – worries each day because of you.
And though the apron strings are cut – sometimes I’d like to kick your butt,
but know one day you’ll walk this path, and then I will sit back and laugh
as you claim I don’t understand your teenage kids are out of hand.
Maureen Clifford © 08/11
When you sleep till the crack of dawn through long hot summer nights so warm,
behind the scenes quite unobserved nature is waking – every bird
begins to sing its morning song, the fields are wet, and night long gone.
Seen through a mist that’s fast dispersing are cattle, and young calves are nursing
closely at their mothers side, as sunlight dapples golden hides.
There’s much frantic activity upon the duck pond. You might see
wild mallard ducks, bright green heads gleaming, busy with their morning preening.
Their wives all dressed in sombre brown; feed busily – bums up, heads down
beneath churned waters, muddy gray – in primitive Jurassic way.
But you heedless of day ahead, sleep tight – you’re such a slug-a-bed
and down the darkest road you creep still cradled in the arms of sleep.
Sleep will eventually give way to the demands of Saturday
and you will rise with angry eyes and thumping head, ‘twas most unwise
to stay out till the wee small hours- and then return through night-time showers
on roads now slippery and slick – where big roos bounded fast and quick
along the verges, seeking feed. You hit one – someone dies and bleeds.
But you are young and fear no harm – you think you hold a magic charm.
It’s only as you age and grow, become a mother that you know
the dangers that lurk everywhere and though this knowledge has been shared
you disregard the sound advice, you think you’ll never pay the price.
So sink or swim you’re on your own. No longer child, but fully grown.
But I am still the mother who – worries each day because of you.
And though the apron strings are cut – sometimes I’d like to kick your butt,
but know one day you’ll walk this path, and then I will sit back and laugh
as you claim I don’t understand your teenage kids are out of hand.
Maureen Clifford © 08/11
