MY MOTHER

My mother went through life as though a sinner woeful,

her days were without fragrance, colour, blossom, glitter;

life’s mere dry husk of fruit, tasting of ashes doleful,

she gathered from time’s tree, unrefreshed ever, bitter.

Sharp dust of poverty from her cheeks beauty lashing

stung right into her eyes, tear-washed their redness sweltered,

sandstorm-like blocked her way, besetting, drifting, stashing,

among its wave-like dunes offered her languor shelter.

Weighed down by sombre years her neck she bowed conceding,

work’s caustic searing glare etched her nerves bare of vigour,

in her last throes she kissed her death with fervent bidding

her lips bearing a smile, with thankful whispers eager.

On marble church-floors dank kneeling in contemplation

in tomb-scent candlelight and before altars bowing,

the rain of fragrant cheer and visions of salvation

in her soul’s chalice gathered, like dewdrops glowing.

Oh mine own mother, now become light, confounding,

thou golden arrow, into that hearth now hurtling

of timeless Mystery’s flame! Thy name resounding

from our waves faded, thou art close, I’m certain!

Of thy blood dead and chill I am the pallid flowering

which under thy mild gaze did blossom, grow and flourish;

thy lips that kissed me, with life’s bitterness endowing

and as thy legacy my soul with gloom did nourish.

As verdant midnight comes with nocturnal peace shining,

thou riseth from thy grave and shareth my bed ailing;

with my breath thy familiar breath I hear aligning

and through my wavering voice thou art reborn, a-wailing.

Through my own veins now thy own body’s warmth is coursing,

thy darkly glowing gaze poured into mine unspoken,

that flash of mystic faith thy trembling soul a-blessing,

has in my soul a fire of blood and fierce force woken.

And just as thine before so is my journey woeful;

my day is without fragrance, colour, blossom, lustre;

life’s mere dry husk of fruit, tasting of ashes doleful,

by thy shade fanned to pluck from time-tree’s boughs I muster.