Sonnet 313

What conscience lives within a woman’s breast
That she forsake a helpless human child,
And so disdain the fruit of her own flesh,
Vain action such, love’s strongest bond defiled;
A mother’s love, once pure in deed, assured,
Now doubted quite, fair whim of wicked queen,
This love once true, in tenets dark immured
For love of self alone, this trust demeaned.
Hearth stones  not held by mortar lie askew
And without fire, colder yet they grow;
The heath without the sun drowns in cold dew;
Lone breasts bereft of love shall suckle woe.
An ape with babe in arms was once set free,
Climbed to great heights, then dropped it from a tree.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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