Wednesday, October 7, 2009

To my Mother

This was written for my mother when I was single and the boys were young primary school children. My mother treasures the poem, and I am still really pleased with it. It just seemed to sum us up. A real testament to my mother.


My Mother's hands reach out
With gritty callouses
Bleeding knuckles cracked
Worn out and hard working
"All that washing " she said

Her hands reach out
Nails short and split
Freckled and sun darkened
Muddied from the garden
"The potatoes will do well this year" she said

My Mother's hands
Rub me down after the bath
Towel my hair, smooth my eyebrows
They don't feel rough, just smooth warmth
"You'll do!" she says

Warm hands reach out
Soft and gentle
Calming in the night
Soothing on my skin
"It was only a dream" she says

They know, these hands
What they have seen
What life they've lived
She gives to me
"You'll do!" she says

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

In the South

The Southern Cross points my way
"Here is your world" it says to me
The lake, the hills, the tussocked tops
The clear sky at night

Here is your world
The stones with deep lichen
The vines, the apples, the rocky roads
The sparkling clear daylight

Here is your world
Like time stands still
The hope, the waiting, the growing old
the child's eyes bright

The Southern Cross is my world
Pointing my way
Step here, step there, look up and see
Its ever shining light