Even with your fingers
Growing slowly twisted and shapeless
With brufen tablets dissolving in your blood
And, sometimes slightly out of breath,
You cooked three different breakfasts
For ungrateful sons and your husband’s health.
And dear Father’s genuine ailments
Were always sound and light events
But you quietly pretended to be well
Even when you were quite ill:
Your faith supported by your fortitude
And your invincible will.
And Father knew this well at ninety
When he smiled and whispered to me:
“Your Mother’s greatest gifts
Were love and loyalty
And the only mistake she ever made
Was to marry me”.
On this significant day
When you are so far away
In some “undiscovered country”,
I still cherish you, mother and miracle woman
For the pride and privilege
Of calling myself your son.