In the scheme of life, what have you proven?
Your babe lies swaddled in a stranger’s arms;
And of lost mother’s love, what part is shriven,
Who weighs the worth of your maternal charms?
Each day you toil, that child, bereft of breast
Is shaped in purpose by another’s mind;
His rote routines now formed of her behest
So he may follow all her proofs in mime.
His changing face and smile, yea his first words
Each day do but reward dull eye and ear,
While late in evenings you return from work
Too tired to play, and mock him with a tear.
What pompous virtue, love in wooden staves,
Where hands that once rocked cradles now dig graves.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.