To My Mother


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.

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