A Mother's touch

Beneath the morning grey she bends
Within her clasped hands coloured flowers
Whilst as the mourning grave she tends
And whiles away a lonely hour.

Her son, the grown man
No longer sees
What looking up she sees of him,
As sun falls through the autumn leaves
And the homely Robin sings his hymn.

A violet bunch of varied stems
Heather, Vetch and Tare
her aged fingers parting them
And placing each with care.

Each year remembered
This stony bed
A fragrant beauty feels
As life long ended rests its head
Where a mother's touch has healed.


Joe Morriss
October 5th 2014