The most amazing woman in my life deserves far more credit than she receives. She is a warrior, an inspiration, an angel, and has made me 99% of what I am today, so I owe her everything (in spite of the maths). So this poem is one from a few months back, and is my attempt to explain the extent to which I admire her for all she is and does, and the many things she is to me. I haven’t really named this poem, but have referred to it by its opening line as it sums up the physical but also spiritual degree to which I am from my mother.
My clay, thou my blood, thou sweet soil of my roots,
My life, thou my sustenance, bearer of fruits,
My cradle, my food, thou the sculptor of moulds,
Thou writer of stories, weave how mine unfolds.
My gardener, water, for all that I grow,
Thou prophet, foreseer of all I will know,
My key, yet my keeper, my road to this earth,
My map, thou my compass, my guidance ere birth.
My books, thou librarian, tutor of truth,
My wisdom, my age, thou my fountain of youth,
My artist, thy legacy all that remains,
As I in thy brush, thou shalt live in my paint.
My mountain, my peace, thou my anchor and calm,
My shelter, my shield, thou protector from harm,
Thou doctor of flesh, and thou nurse of my thoughts,
Take pride and repose in the frames thou hast wrought.
Thou art of the scriptures, thy soul is the same,
Thy life one of sacrifice, challenge and pain,
But heart be unbroken, thy body be strong,
For all thou hast given forever lives on.
My martyr, my mother, thy kingdom is mine,
My love for thee always, eternal in time,
For as thou hast loved me before I was born,
My love for thy soul lives long once thou hast gone.