MOTHER

When my father died my mother -

According to the family style -

Kept going; that he died

Speaking of his Lord to a sick friend

As a saint being saintly,

Comforted. Yet later she admitted

That that day her song-bird

Died in her too.

When her brother Tom died

That was more bitter:

Instantly, in a bookies,

As a sinner being sinful

With no known regard

For grace and faith. Had he,

For eternity,

Backed the wrong horse?

Her brother Bobby’s death

Came to her in an envelope

From an Australian social worker.

If he was a wanderer wandering

She took comfort from two words,

“His Lord”.

Now, day by day, doors close;

A bus is a step too high,

Shops a step too far, “home” -

Her birthplace, a road too long.

In faith and grace, and mild humour,

She keeps going, patient for

Whatever translation

Her Lord has in mind for her.

My mother is now with the Lord; she fell asleep through Jesus very peacefully in the early hours of this morning.  The poem above was written several years ago.  Her time of keeping going is now over.

"We are confident, I say, and pleased rather to be absent from the body and present with the Lord", 2 Corinthians 5: 8.