Sonnet 424

There was sadness when he passed, and too, relief:
That tortured soul set free from earthly bounds;
His visit to this world, by all counts, brief,
His exit there quite shy of fifty rounds.
My mother, still of prime took it quite hard
Though knowing he, of choice was was doomed to be;
With mouths to feed, few means and little lard,
Fate cast her hapless on a savage sea.
She drew her bairn to breast and made her way;
I never knew what stayed her guiding star…
Of love and hope that would not bend or fade,
Gave every measure to outflank the bar.
No truer brace of love have I yet known —
Those gentle hands that wrung sweet life from stone.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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