Worn

 

Worn, like the shores of a thousand reasons

Like the coat of a hundred seasons

Or the grass on the trodden footpath

Of countless errands

Past the bark of a busy tree

Home to small creatures

Eaten by relentless birds

And stripped by squirrels

While crouching in a rain drenched corner of monotony

By the fence supported with a growth of clinging ivy

 

To a house with tired windows

In skin exposed to weather

On shoes of thinning leather

And a thread-bare heal spudded sock

Steps wearily on a rug

Host to a moth and all its young

To clear the stains from a mug

With a tired saggy sponge and watch

As a tea-tear glides down and stains the motif

Best mum in the world