Mother’s Love by Annabel Howarth

From crack and snip,

On blue-white sheets,

To ash above or dust beneath,

There is a force which can’t be broken,

By distance or harsh words once spoken.

Mother’s touch,

The loving touch,

The one you crave and need so much,

Whose cradling arms stopped wailing cries,

When life was merely suckling milk.

Whose tender hands caressed your brow,

In childhood fever and disease,

Those arms which lifted you when down,

With ointments and her gentle touch,

She kissed away your screaming tears.

When you were young your sunny days,

Were filled with her sweet singing voice,

Her warm eyes gazing down on you,

Her Mona Lisa smile of love,

To make things right, it was enough.

And in achievement, up you’ll look

And catch her proud eyes smiling there,

When failure nags you in its midst,

She’ll smile and tell you not to care,

For mother’s love is always there.

When time and seas divide your flesh,

The cord which still holds fast your souls,

Will lengthen, strengthen, and in dreams,

She’ll wipe away your sleeping tears,

And whisper wisdom’s tales of love.

Even when your hurtful tongue,

May slash deep wounds within her heart,

When time comes that you need her most,

She’ll heal those words and play her part,

Mother’s love, her work of art.

And when you’re old, senile or frail,

And she has walked through heaven’s door,

The force of love will still be there,

When out you cry her name again,

Her touch will reach beyond the grave.

From crack and snip,

On blue-white sheets,

To ash above or dust beneath,

There is a force which can’t be broken,

By distance or harsh words once spoken.

This is from a poem I wrote in 1995.  I was 21.  This version is very slightly adapted, with changes to the last two lines of the first and last verses.  At the time, I was in my final year of university, in England.  My mother was living in the USA.  I missed her terribly, but always felt she was there.  We had terrible rows too, back then, but that was how our relationship always was.  Passionate.  She loved fiercely and felt pain in equal measure.  My paternal grandmother was in hospital, suffering from senile dementia.  She called out often for her sisters, Alice and Sarah, rather than her mother, but that bond was still there, and inspired me.  Sadly, my own mother died in December of last year.  It has been the first Mothering Sunday without her.  I miss her so much, but she speaks to me in my dreams.  In memory of my beloved mother, Ann, and to thank her for her unbreakable force of love.