There is a place inside my mind
where flower petals twist and wind
a quilt to softly bind
five children borne of hope and love;
my precious ones growing free of
the lows and limits of this life -
from shameful shadows roaming rife.
Mothers dream clings to fragments of normality
to ease the longing smacks cracks in her sanity.

She taught each child to hear the ocean through shells;
and yet none were ever more than wasted cells.
She sang them lullabies from a rocking chair;
and yet the womb was stripped bare, no children there.
Her love for them so strongly she expressed
and told them of the beauty they possessed;
yet despite that full heart, she was not blessed.
She gave the kind of kisses to chase their fears away;
yet her fearful heart pangs from the longing everyday.
She could do a job where the work is never done;
yet she'll never here the call she longs to hear -
Mum.

The pain and the sorrow that I write of,
is not borne of pity, but borne out of love.