Wednesday, 27 March 2013


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


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 ©      
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