Poetry is in all and sundry
From the moment of entry
Into eggs, bumps and wombs
Till placenta is discarded by midwives.
Round the clock, on a mother’s hand,
Is an innocent looking child
Crying, so sad like the world
Is about to come to an end.
She pets and worries all night,
She stretches her breast out
Then the child drinks and rest
On her heavenly milky chest…
She bathes and clothes her pretty child,
She is a designer, nurse, therapist,
And teacher, teaching the toddlers
How to talk, crawl and run.
Dusty flu comes and grabs her child
Using her sweet lovely honey mouth
She sucks and sniffs the catarrh out
From the nose of her innocent child.
Under her shadows, her child gets shaded
When hiding from the hot burning rays..
The love of a mother for her child
Is an old story that never dies.