Mother of Eternity

Her hair made white
By untold battles of life,
Her skin soft, scattered
Kindly with wrinkles,
Bronzed from the sun,
Her eyes wise, small,
Blue, earth-like spheres.
She carries a wooden cane,
Strong like deep roots.
We asked her to come
And bless our home.
But she refused us,
Saying, the old are most
Happy in their own homes.
We remained in her company,
As she recounted tales
Of brutality. Her husband
Abused her severely;
Her son, she said, twisted
Her arm; her son’s daughter
Hit her in the ribs. Low
Our heads hung, unnerved
By her confessions. We
Left her mumbling and
Damning the whole of
Her offspring.

Copyright © 2013 Shainbird. All rights reserved.

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About Shainbird

"A lonely craftsman putting one word after another."
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