A MOTHERS STORY

Anyone with teenage kids will get this.  I guess some things never really change.


 A MOTHERS STORY

When you sleep till the crack of dawn 

through long hot summer nights so warm,

behind the scenes quite unobserved

 nature is waking – every bird

begins to sing its morning song,

 the fields are wet, and night long gone.

Seen through a mist that’s fast dispersing 

are cattle, and young calves are nursing

closely at their mothers side,

 as sunlight dapples golden hides.

There’s much frantic activity 

upon the duck pond.  You might see

wild mallard ducks, bright green heads gleaming,

 busy with their morning preening.

Their wives all dressed in sombre brown;

 feed busily – bums up, heads down

beneath churned waters, muddy gray –

 in primitive Jurassic way.

But you heedless of day ahead,

 sleep tight – you’re such a slug-a-bed

and down the darkest road you creep

 still cradled in the arms of sleep.

Sleep will eventually give way 

to the demands of Saturday

and you will rise with angry eyes

 and thumping head, ‘twas most unwise

to stay out till the wee small hours 

and then return through night-time showers

on roads now slippery and slick

 where big roos bounded fast and quick

along the verges, seeking feed.  

You hit one – someone dies and bleeds.

But you are young and fear no harm .

  You think you hold a magic charm.

It’s only as you age and grow, 

become a mother that you know

the dangers that lurk everywhere 

and though this knowledge has been shared

you disregard the sound advice, 

you think you’ll never pay the price.

So sink or swim you’re on your own.  

No longer child, but fully grown.

But I am still the mother who 

worries each day because of you.

And though the apron strings are cut 

sometimes I’d like to kick your butt,

but know one day you’ll walk this path, 

and then I will sit back and laugh

as you claim I don’t understand. 

 Your teenage kids are out of hand.

Maureen Clifford ©