The Mother

"Are you ready now?" whispered the wind,

gently folding its warmth around her

enveloping her in a tight embrace,

holding her away from all living eyes.

The path's been chosen, the leaves are black,

the blood's been washed off your hands;

The bells have tolled and through it all

the wasteland is now a green grassland.

"No," said the mother. "I must stay,

I must see it through. It's the only way."

The wind held her closer, warmer still,

fearing she might break under the mill.

The leaves of grass grew to reach far.

away from where the seed first lay.

Mornings  grew to sunny days,

once helpless hands carried the lay,

Whizzing thoughts through young minds,

reaching out to others of their kind.

Delving into the temple spires,

for faith, for love, for another hour.

Hearts filled with love now wept,

weary in the mother's arms slept.

Grown now, the trees leant,

heavy with fruit and somewhat bent.

Morning and sundown filled with work

Eventide's laughter now stealthily slept.

"Are you ready now?" whispered the wind

The mother looked around, then looked away.

"Yes," she whispered and then turned

Stretched out her hand towards the golden ray

rose above the earth, on her way.

"Goodbye," said the wind. "Rest in peace.

I hold them, mother."

The earth rose to meet the sky 

and the waters welled from every eye.