Your fingers wiped away my childhood’s tears;
your sweetest smile lit up my early years.
You fed me, clothed me, kept me safe and warm;
you sheltered me and shielded me from storm.
You pulled the splinter from my tiny hand,
You said, “have faith, till you can understand!”
You worked like slave when dad could breathe no more;
a widow with three kids is always poor.
For all these things I’m grateful, mother dear;
to raise us without dad was no small-beer!
But when I grew up wilful, wretched, wild
you washed your hands of your weak, wayward child.
But I was marred by grief, as well as you;
so, to my own self, I could not be true.
We quarrelled, have not seen each other since;
the guilt from both our hands we’ll never rinse.