Mother Dear

It never was the Meissen that she threwbut dinner plates, of which we had so fewour dad would have a scar upon his headand breakfast plate was just a slice of bread

The kitchen knife was brandished now and thento emphasize who was the Mother Hen;and we? We justly cowered in our beds,threw our meagre covers o'er our heads.

She wore a mini skirt and beehive hairwhen she was sure my father was not therethen took us visiting our “uncle Stan”When asked, we had just visited our gran.

A Babycham and brandy was her thingthat was, without, or with, her wedding ringand every bar appeared to have a friendwho'd buy her drinks and linger to the end.

And yet, when knees were scraped and hugs requiredit was from mother they were most desiredThe distance that our father held from hermeant any love for him was just a blur.