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Jul 2019
Mothers pride loaf carved by hands lost in days of spam teas and stewed fruit puddings,
Hands so tired they now rest idly.

Patterns for grand pullovers poured over as children grow and set off for school,
Discarded under word search puzzles.

Heels tapped on bus steps as she climbed aboard the Bath bus and children’s hands held tight,
Grown now they drive to her side.

At her window she waves watching family leave for cars and journeys home,
One last goodbye and sleep comes.
Written by
Stephen Moore  M
(M)   
76
 
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