Hushed, stuttering, sotto voce conversation
Of women of a certain age squatting in a cafe
Like tigers in a rage. Red in tooth and claw,
They defend their young with barbed remarks that
Carry such sage implications
That the ripples of misunderstanding extend far and wide.
Of their dark past little is known, except mothers
Perform many daily tasks whilst with joy and grief
Welcome the clones
Babies arrive helpless and empty, they stare at whatever's there
And say nothing for months and months and months
Echoing their mothers' speech
Gurgling with delight
At every passing sound and sight.
This forms their attachment to the world of form and speech.
Which, for a future poet, is a very temporary thing.