Sonnet 507

It was not mine, that hand that rocked the cradle,
Though I may yet have touched it once or twice;
It was the finer one that God did favor
To be a mother and a loving wife.
The one whose face, now lined of joy and tears,
Fond heart replete with love and kindness fair
That so stood steadfast ‘midst life’s endless fears,
Soft clad in courage yet beyond compare.
Our children have now left to brave their way,
To stake their claims upon the world wide;
Sweet memories the blazon that they wave
On which is writ all hope engendered pride.
Though for my part, I did but what I ought;
Awestruck to view the wonders that she wrought.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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