Sonnet 300

Let not the arms of mother’s love despair
For love bestowed does not presume a way
Yet labors on in sweet eternal care,
Sustaining grace through constancy of  days;
The wisest son does make his father proud,
The dullard to his mother’s breast oft clings,
Yet fosters both may don the mourner’s shroud
When sorrow to glad hearts, flawed breed does bring.
Still of black shame, who bears the greater scorn,
Of baird whose actions stain their pedigree?
There oft the mother’s heart does heft the more
Which mocks her worth and work so woefully.
The warmest sun and too the sweetest rain
Falls yet upon the flower and weed the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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