Mourning Mother
A mourning mother visits a grave
Of a long, lost child,
Passed away at the tender age of three
Held a precious soul, so warm and mild.
She remembers the long, curly locks
Her child had on her head,
Read her Fairytale books
Every night, before she went to bed.
Walked with her along the beach
Traced their names in the sand,
Watched and laughed, as the waves rolled in
As they stood there, hand in hand.
Went out to the garden
Each and every day,
Picked newly grown flowers
And chased the bugs away.
Now, the mother mourns the loss
Of this little, wonderful soul,
A child she will never see grow up
There's nothing that can replace, that empty hole.
Copyright Cynthia Jones
Nov.14/2006
Just one of my (new) titles I had written down.
Vote for this poem
Mourning Mother
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