To My Mother

Most near, most dear, most love and most far,

Under the window where I often found her

Sitting as huge as Asia,  seismic with laughter,

Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,

Irresistible as Rabelais, but most tender  for

The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,–

She is a  procession no one can follow after

But be like a little dog following a brass band.

She will not glance up at the bomber, or condescend

To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,

But lean on the mahogany  table  like a mountain

Whom only faith can move, and so I send

O all my faith and all my love to tell her

That she will move from mourning into morning.

By: George Barker