The Mother

When she lies down to face the night
Her hands still smell of the mince
She lovingly prepared for tomorrow’s dinner
Her clothes bear witness to her daughter’s breakfast
Her face, etched with love,
Carries bags of exhaustion
Hanging beneath her eyes
Her hair frays upwards
“like the £50 note man!”
She jokes to her husband
No time for oils to pat it down
Sometimes the mirror tells her
Look at you. Such a mess. So ugly
And sometimes she tells the mirror
Look at me.
My face speaks of the dedication
Only a mother can possess
These tired hands weave the future of my family
And that smell of garlic, and the chicken soup in the air, are the
Memories of my children


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