What grace yet bides within a woman’s breast
Where she forsakes a helpless human child
And so disdains the fruit of her own flesh,
By actions vain, love’s strongest bond defiled;
A mother’s love, once pure in deed, assured,
Now doubted quite, as whim of wicked queen;
This love once true, now hereby dark immured,
For love of self, life’s fondest 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;
Bare breasts bereft of love e’er 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.