Sonnet 410

In the scheme of life, what have you proven?
Your babe lies cradled in a stranger’s arms;
And of that sweet mother’s love, what part is given,
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 truths in mime.
His changing face and smile, yea his first words
Each day do but reward a distant ear,
While late in evenings you return from work
Too tired to play, and mock him with a tear.
In trek to darkness, what chaos pure love braves,
Where hands that once rocked cradles, now dig graves?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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