Another weep for mother,

the bosom of laid rest tonight.

She had retired to the past,

my senior had glut, yet

was not old in pastime,

as it seemed.

She was a model for a bird,

like an ocean gull who would fly for days

only to reach a sticky end in a Harrow's fiesty glare.

It was the silly mischief that did it,

the playing with dolls, twirling their hair,

just waiting to bite their hand as they did yours.

They crossed you once; you can't let them again.

But these plastic fields are melancholy in a jar -

the red rubies would be the plate,

and the blue sprinkles the food.

But for once, mother would sing,

as a lullaby baby, she had been raised

by a duckling in a cow, weeping on a sheep's tail,

and sighing a sweet tiredness to the surrounding bull,

the bulkhead corn swaying in the branches;

just glad to have another weep for mother.