THE WORKBOX

The earliest memory of my mother, that I can still recall,

Is an incident that happened, when I was very small.

One morning in the summer -time, on a washing day,

She sat me near a window, so I could sit and play,

Where she could keep an eye on me, for safety, I suppose.

While she was busy in the yard, hanging out the clothes.

My Mum's life was very hard, of what she had, she took good care.

Two items that she valued most, were a matching pair.

One was a wooden writing case, which an ancestor had made.

There were pictures done in marquetry, on their lids displayed.

The other one was a workbox, a delightful work of art.

It had a tray with nine compartments, in the upper part.

In which a hoard of pretty things, I loved to touch were hid.

I still recall the thrill I felt, as I lifted up each lid.

On each one, a dainty knob, hand carved out of bone.

The lids were each precisely made, for a place of it's own.

As I replaced the final one, it would not go down flat.

So with my tiny tight clenched fist, I gave the knob a pat.

To my horror and dismay, the lid just broke in two.

I knew that I had spoilt it, but there was nothing I could do.

My mother saw me crying, and came to find out why.

She just cuddled me and wiped my eyes, then said no need to cry.

That's the sort of love she showed me, throughout my childhood years.

So I survived the hardships with little cause for tears.
                                                                                                                    Ray Baker
 
 
 
 
 

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