I often think of you, dear Mom
As being gentle like a dove
With tender eyes and helping hands
That never ceased to offer love
Quite often, as a boy
I broke a flower pot or two
I caused you grief and sometimes lied
And didn’t know you always knew
One day I smashed your favourite lamp
Rare it was, unlike all others
Then you had to hear my plea:
“You can fix it, can’t you mother?”
Once in rage I broke your heart
By yelling: “I am sick of you!”
You didn’t sigh, you didn’t cry
Just cooked my favourite Irish stew
I didn’t realize for years
How cruel I had been to you
And what your heart must well have felt
The day I said that thing to you
You bore and raised up children four
One to flee this life too soon
Daughters two, and this your son
With love you taught us night and noon
Now, dear Mom, you may look back
To see a job well done
Years to come will show your fruits
And that your endless prayers have won.