for my mother
The din of calendars, endearments, truths,
that clatters under biros, will arrest
the ears that hark the wanting eyes of youth.
With filial undress, address unmoved
by wallpapered regrets, that hear no less
the din of calendars, endearments, truths.
Amidst the courtroom clamour, blistered proof
of acrimony drops from council crests
to ears that hark the wanting eyes of youth.
With the clumsy cool of cygnets, aloof
to chatter of their lamentation, rests
the din of calendars, endearments, truths,
beseeches with the pomp of the uncouth,
strains that forgive, forget, and forlorn, rest
on ears that hark the wanting eyes of youth.
With stoic steel of ploughman, nail and tooth,
have time and heart to which I can attest.
The din of calendars, endearments, truths,
and ears that hark the wanting eyes of youth.