Ode to my Mother

To bring a girl into this world,
From coal-fired face and misery,
Her parents, tired, steady and old,
Raised on frugal martyry.
Methodism and the narrow way -
Love-lacking,
Confidence drilled out,
Nothing to make her stay.
Sent her wayward packing,
From Newhall to wander about.

Solicitors, shorthand, Dentists,
The world of work came too soon.
Adult, young and no lists,
Already: love, fate and misfortune.
Parties, boyfriends came and went.
Twitching curtains,
Parents' disapproval.
But one remained, from Lethe sent,
One they precipitated for certain.
Exeat and countrywide removal.

At last: three perfect children -
Two boys and a girl.
One too late and one delusion,
The last, sweet, ringlet and curl.
Husband, rich, bombastic,
Demoralizing,
Negligent,
Often paralytic.
Socializing,
And absent.

She took the bitter pill again,
Carried the load.
Said goodbye to lads and men,
No more thoughts of safety owed.
"Character is fate," they say,
Both: pluck and nervousness,
Strength and doubt.
Her only way,
Was righteousness,
Joy and toil inside and out.

South, Mid, South once more,
England held no quarter.
A knock, a ring upon the door,
From him no shelter.
Both mind and sinew carried on,
With duty done and duty must.
Spirits lift.
Wars are never won.
The ornaments always need a dust,
We clean, sort, die, sift.

Having no apogee in life,
Nobility is much too dear.
Our lives are full of strife,
And never shed a tear.
But of this I am sure:
Judgement comes to us all.
We act at our own peril,
When life is no more.
Receiving the call,
The winds will blow her no ill.

Her achievements are many:
Loyalty, friendship and love.
Her faults too are many,
Gentle as a Dove.
Funny,
Irreverent,
Caring.
The room is sunny,
When she is present,
Life forever sharing.

I write this ode before the end,
The end is never ours.
So time itself these thoughts will mend,
The closing of the doors.
When all is done,
The carpet pulled,
All of us no more.
Remember the sun,
How we were dulled,
And the light upon the Southern shore!