Dry as a bone our Mother is these days, as she
Sits there, silent, slowly simmering away.
Her fruitfulness, scorched, her vitality, sapped, as she
Draws on, smouldering; breaths of life lost.
Full of nurture Mother used to be, when she
Fed us, bathed us, and gave us her whole.
And by giving us her whole, she gave you her soul,
Only to be betrayed, by Judas, you played.
And now what’s left of her, is what’s left of us,
As a child without their Mother, is a child in need.
Like a season’s end, we wither and wilt,
But this season is one that cycles no more.
Memories of Mother’s nurture you chose to forget,
Memories of our linkage you choose to neglect.
Because you don’t care,
As Mother’s not dead,